#tardis family au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stllmnstr · 3 months

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champagne problems: part one

pairing: jake sim x f reader

genre: enemies to lovers, rich kids au, fake dating au, college au, angst, fluff

part one word count: 15.6k

part one warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, family drama, a fatal case of second son syndrome

soundtrack: boom - dpr live / bad idea! - girl in red / blood on the floor - kuiper / calico - dpr ian / comme de garçons (like the boys) - rina sawayama / lust - chase atlantic

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The second son of a wealthy family, Jake Sim has gotten used to always standing in the shadow of his older brother. From grades to girls to talks of becoming future CEO of the Sim Corporation, he’s no stranger to coming in second place. So when an opportunity arises for Jake to finally have the one thing his brother can’t and best him once and for all, he knows he’d be a fool not to take it.

There are only two problems. The first is that the thing his brother wants so badly isn’t a thing at all. It’s you, semi-estranged daughter of the Sims’ closest and most long-standing business partner.

The second is that Jake Sim can’t fucking stand you.

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PART ONE

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Fingers wrapping around the stem of your wine glass, you sigh. Punctuality may have been a steep order for someone who you suspect is running dangerously low on both common sense and regard for others, but twenty minutes? Really?

Your eyes land on the obnoxiously ornate grandfather clock next to the hostess stand. In a restaurant with ceilings so high you can barely see them and a carefully curated ambience that practically screams old money, it blends right in. It also gives you an updated timeframe on your would-be date’s tardiness.

Scratch that – thirty minutes.

Pulling out your phone, the absence of any new notifications is almost as annoying as whatever threadbare excuse you’re sure your date will offer you when he arrives. Glancing at the door, it remains devoid of any new patrons. Or perhaps rather if he arrives.

You’re running near empty on both pinot noir and patience, and you use the distraction of your phone to make you seem a little less pathetic. As if this entire restaurant isn’t already privy to the fact that you’re actively being stood up.

Well, you think wryly, at least you look good doing it. The off white ensemble you selected for the evening is Chanel, and vintage, at that. Usually you wouldn’t pull out all the stops like this for something as flimsy as a first date, but men like James Sim have an eye for this kind of thing.

Four years your senior, he’s already carving out a name for himself at twenty-five. You suppose it is a little less impressive, though, when the name he was born with already carries a legacy of its own in the business world you usually do your very best to stay out of. Rumor has it he’s already a shoo-in for the next CEO of his father’s company. When nepotism is that blatant, you can’t do much but scoff and raise a glass to it.

Scrambling for something to do to make your wasted time pass a bit quicker, you search up the social media profile of your would-be date. Honestly, you doubt you would learn anything more substantial about him if he actually bothered to show up than you will from scanning over his feed. In your experience, men like that tend to make up for their success on paper by lacking an actual personality and any sort of self-awareness.

Gym selfie. Scroll. Gym selfie from a slightly different angle. Scroll. Dog photo. Pausing, you suppress a small smile. The dog in the picture is pretty cute, if nothing else. Zooming in slightly, your eyes crinkle at the way the dog’s tongue lolls out of its open mouth in a grin. Well, at least he’s got that going for him, you suppose. A cute dog is enough to bump any guy’s ranking up a few points in your book.

If James Sim is nothing but a sum of his social media profile, it’s not like you expected anything else. After all, this is the heir to the Sim Corporation, a golden boy that was born with a crown on his head and a gold spoon in his mouth. Everything he’s earned has been laid out for him in painstakingly placed steps. His entire life has been guided by a heavy hand and the knowledge that he would one day inherit everything that makes his family worth knowing.

You probably wouldn’t be too concerned with showing up to first dates on time, either. Especially since you doubt he’s ever been denied a second.

Tonight is nothing but a blip on a radar, you’re sure. Something for a secretary to schedule and him to notice a day or five late. Maybe if you’re lucky, someone on his team will send a consolatory bouquet once he does realize the mistake. He is still building his reputation, after all, and you could use a fresh set of flowers for your apartment.

With another slightly pitiful sigh and a final swig of wine, your glass is empty and your optimism is shot. A second glance at the clock says that thirty-eight minutes have now elapsed since your scheduled meeting time. And in your opinion, that’s thirty-nine too late for a first date.

Retrieving your coat from the back of your chair, you figure tonight will be remembered as nothing but a waste of a good outfit. Besides, you suppose forty minutes of aimless scrolling is ultimately less painful than the inevitable headache this date surely would have been had he bothered to actually show up.

Suddenly, you frown. You won’t complain if this date never actually happens, but you may end up with a slight problem. Although you haven’t been on the best of terms with your mother in a long time, tonight was meant to be the final bullet point on a list of favors you owe her.

As you pull your coat on, you consider the best way to frame the events of the evening. Lean into the whole ‘getting stood up’ thing in an effort to earn some sympathy points? Lay out the facts in their most basic form, timestamps included? Emphasize the fact that you waited long past the obligatory twenty minutes for him to actually show up? Or leave your message chain as it currently is, tell her nothing at all, and let her assume what she wants?

They’re all equally iffy, you think. Risky in their own regard.

Signing your name at the bottom of the check, you scribble in a generous tip for the waitress who did her best to check on you often without making it obvious that she knew you were expecting company that never arrived, expertly skirting that line between overbearing and empathetic. At least someone will go home happy, you think, adding an extra zero for good measure.

Exiting the restaurant, you decide to make it two people. James Sim may be a hotshot at his father’s company, but you’ll be damned before you let him ruin your evening. Before you order the Uber back to your place, you add an extra stop at your favorite sushi place. Takeout in the comfort of your own home will certainly be easier to enjoy than whatever Michelin-Star concoction you would have ordered here anyway, eaten in small bites between forced conversation topics, awkward pauses, and too long sips of wine.

And an hour later, you’re polishing off the last piece of an absolutely divine rainbow roll, wearing nothing but silk pajamas and a face mask, with old reruns of your favorite show playing on the TV when James Sim finally glances down at the Rolex on his wrist. He’s finally arrived at the tail end of a meeting that’s running so far behind schedule he has half a mind to just walk out of it. He would, too, if his father wouldn’t actually threaten his life for it.

It’s late, James realizes. Stupid late. So late that he won’t have the time or energy to do anything but pass out by the time he gets home, which really sucks, because he was genuinely looking forward to his date tonight–

“Fuck.”

All he can do is curse, even as the shocked faces of a concerning number of top executives turn to look at him all at the same time.

…

Jake Sim is about to fail his econ midterm.

It will be at least a week before grades are released, but he already knows it. He can already feel it in the way the questions start to swim in his mind, making less and less sense the more he turns them over, in the way his gut fills with dread as the minute hand of the clock at the front of the lecture hall ticks closer and closer to the testing time limit.

And it wouldn’t be that bad, if it weren’t his second time repeating this course.

Oh, his father is going to have an absolute field day with this one. Jake can practically hear it now.

“You failed your midterm? After already failing this course twice? You know, James was actually the top scoring student in his economic section. Dr. Jeong still mentions his term paper every time I see him at the university…”

And that’s if he’s in a good mood. Or rather, if things at the company are going well. Jake doesn’t even want to consider the comments he’ll be on the receiving end of if the news of his failure finds his father already agitated.

Exhaling, he gives his exam one final once-over, scanning for completion more than accuracy. His brain is so fried that he knows it’s of little use to him now. For his own sake, the best thing to do at this point is turn his test in and send a silent prayer to whoever might be listening on his way out the door.

Leaving the lecture hall behind him, Jake puts his phone out of airplane mode and frowns at the two notifications that pop up on his screen. The first is a missed call from his brother, and the second is a message from the same sender, requesting that he give him a call when he has the chance.

Considering that it’s neither his birthday nor a major holiday, Jake is more than a little confused. Regardless, he honors the request, pressing his phone to his ear as he begins the walk back to his apartment. Although it’s significantly less spacious than his childhood home, he finds it far more welcoming in more ways than one.

The outgoing call rings once, twice, three times. Jake is about to be annoyed at the missed connection, but his brother answers in the moments just before he’s sent to voicemail.

“Hey, Jake.” Shocking. He actually bothered to check the caller ID.

“Hey.” Jake’s voice is careful, guarded. It’s not like his personal life is of any importance to his older brother, but he’s not in the mood to answer any questions. He won’t give James any reasons to ask. “I saw your message.”

“Right.” Jake can hear the shuffle of other voices, scattered movements coming from the other line. James sounds busy. Just like always. Usually, that would usually mean he’s distracted. But Jake has the odd feeling that he has his brother’s undivided attention when James adds, “I have a favor to ask you.”

Immediately, Jake’s stomach drops. There are very few things in this world that are not within James Sim’s grasp, and even less that are within Jake’s, relatively speaking. Whatever it is, he must be desperate, if he’s willing to enlist the help of his little brother.

“Okay.” Jake’s voice betrays none of his sudden anxieties. “What is it?”

At least James spares him the agony of suspense. “You know ___, right?”

Jake frowns. Sure, he knows of you. Just like he has a vague idea of every one of his family’s business partners and their immediate kin. Particularly the ones that are the same age as him and attend the same university. But it’s not like he’s close with you, not like he’s ever had an actual conversation of any substance with you.

Especially since the minimal interactions the two of you have had did not leave Jake wanting more. The only child of parents whose last name is on the front of the most successful law firm within a thousand mile radius, you strike him as everything he’d expect you to be.

Spoiled. Entitled. Vapid. Out of touch with any version of reality that doesn’t consist of you getting everything you want at the exact moment you want it. He supposes it’s a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, considering his own upbringing, but he’d like to think that he’s earned what he’s been given, at least partially. Especially since most of it has been his brother’s hand-me-downs. And it’s not like his father has ever been in the habit of doing him any favors that don’t come wrapped in criticism, comparison, and disdain.

Although rumor does have it you and your mother haven’t been on speaking terms since you left for university, Jake imagines it’s probably because you wanted to bring the limited edition Versace to campus with you, and she insisted it would be safer at home.

Oh, well. Whatever designer dispute happened between you and your mother is no skin off his back. Jake has his own problems to worry about.

One of them being his brother’s question that still lingers on the other line.

Weighing responses in his head, Jake finally settles on, “I guess.” It’s his best attempt at being noncommittal.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t do anything to dissuade his brother. “Do you have her number by chance? My secretary should have taken it down, but she can’t find it anywhere.”

Jake balks, footsteps faltering. An equally distracted student walking behind him nearly stumbles right into his back. Wordlessly, Jake sends them an apologetic look before clarifying, “Her number? Like, her personal phone number?”

“What other kind of number is there?” And there’s the James that Jake knows. Annoyed at the perceived incompetencies of his younger brother, just as always.

Suddenly, Jake’s patience is running short too. James is the one asking for a favor and still has the gall to be annoyed with him. Typical. Jake’s words are clipped when he says, “No, I don’t have ___’s phone number.”

Jake expects that to be the end of it, but his brother won’t let it go so easily.

“Seriously? Don’t you two go to the same school?”

Jake rolls his eyes. “Right, because I have the entire student body on speed dial.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Jake half expects his brother to just hang up on him. After all, he’s never been able to take what he gets, to swallow what he dishes out.

What Jake does not expect, however, is the way James sounds so tentative when he speaks again. “Well…”

“Well what?” Patience already running thin, it’s all he can do not to snap.

“Do you think you could get it for me?”

Jake must be dreaming. This must be a post-exam punishment, a hallucination brought on by over exerting his brain too far for too long. “Do I think I could get ___’s phone number for you?” he repeats flatly.

“Is there an echo in here?” Asshole. At least he’s consistent.

“Just an echo chamber,” Jake mutters away from the receiver.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.” Jake stops for a moment to fiddle with his keyring as he walks up the stairs to his apartment. “No, I can’t get her phone number for you.”

“Why not?”

The key won’t line up quite right. Jake tries again, frustration seeping through. “Because I have better things to do than run stupid errands for you. Why don’t you drive here and get it yourself?”

“Trust me, if I thought she’d give it to me, I’d be there in an hour.”

The lock on his door finally clicks open, and Jake all but throws his bag down after kicking off his shoes. “And what the hell makes you think she’d give it to me?”

“Well, you didn’t accidentally stand her up, for one.” James doesn’t sound embarrassed by it. Just matter-of-fact. Like a date is nothing but a business deal. Something to be rescheduled and redone if negotiations go sour the first time around.

It is enough to stir up some of Jake’s curiosity, though. “You went on a date with ___?” He supposes it makes sense. Even if the rumor mill and its rumblings about your rocky relationship with your mother ring true, you’re still your parents’ daughter. Still a perfect match on paper for the future CEO of the Sim Corporation. The king of a company and princess of a law firm. It’s a match made in heaven, he thinks ruefully.

“No, I didn’t. That’s kind of the whole point here.”

“Whatever.” Jake still doesn’t see what the hell he has to do with all this. “Why don’t you just look up her parents’ number in the company database and get it from them?”

Jake can practically feel his brother’s exasperation through the phone. “Right, because that would go over really well. Hi there," he imitates. “I’d like to make your daughter the mother of my future children. Care to pass along her phone number so I can get started on that?”

Jake suppresses a wince. “Jesus. I see why she stood you up.”

“She didn’t. I stood her up,” James clarifies. “On accident.”

Semantics. And not ones that Jake is interested in. “Either way. I’m not getting her number for you.”

“Yeah?” Jake is unsettled by the way there’s still no trace of defeat in his brother’s voice. There’s something almost sinister when he suddenly switches topics. “How are classes going?”

Jake’s lips pull into a taut line, disaster of an econ midterm still fresh on his mind. “Fine.”

“Really? Even econ? Third time’s the charm and all that?” Well, at least his brother can be counted on to consistently be an asshole.

“Why do you care?” The only thing Jake wants to do is end this call and crawl into bed for a well-deserved afternoon nap. Let his subconscious spare him from thoughts of his older brother and econ and you for at least a little bit.

James has other plans. “You must have taken the midterm recently, right?” Jake’s silence is confirmation enough. “You know, the only thing Dr. Jeong weighs more heavily than the midterm is the final paper at the end of the semester.”

A minute ago, Jake thought you were the last thing he wanted to talk about. The sudden shift in direction in this conversation is starting to prove him wrong. If there’s one thing Jake would rather discuss even less than his older brother’s dating life, it’s school. “What does that have to do with a–”

“And I think I still have my copy of the paper that earned me the top score in my entire section.” The smugness is practically palpable. “I might have to do some digging, but I’m sure it’s in my old files somewhere.”

Jake rolls his eyes, wishes the immediate comparison weren’t the first thing to rise to the forefront of his mind. Wishes it didn’t find him so lacking. Wishes it wasn’t narrated in the voice of his disappointed father. “If you’re trying to gloat, it’s n–”

“I’m trying to strike a deal. Jesus, no wonder you’re on track to be a super senior getting a business degree.”

“This is my third year,” Jake defends indignantly.

“And your third attempt at econ, which I passed in my first year.” He sounds like he’s settling a little too well into the CEO role when he proposes, “I’m trying to make it your last attempt.”

Jake would be lying if he said his curiosity weren’t piqued, even just slightly. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, little brother, that my term paper, my notes, all of it, are yours.” It sounds too good to be true. It has to be too good to be true. James is a lot of things, but generous and helpful are very rarely any of them. “As soon as you get me ___’s number.” And there it is.

Jake hangs up without bothering to dignify that with a response and hopes it sends a strong enough signal of his refusal. Then, he falls into his bed face-first with a groan.

And a week later, when his econ midterm results are finally posted, the first thing Jake does is let his head fall on his desk with an alarmingly loud thud that has Jay poking his head in the door to make sure everything’s okay. The second thing he does, a solid twenty minutes later, is send his older brother a text.

Jake [7:21pm]: You better start digging through those old files.

…

All things considered, you’re easier to track down than Jake expects. The university campus is big, and judging from the way he can’t remember ever seeing you in a class, the two of you don’t share a major. But the similarities in your social status mean you’re bound to run in some of the same circles, and Jake is able to use this to his advantage.

Ultimately, it takes very little digging on his part. First, he mentions your name to Jay in the middle of an upper body superset in the university gym. Jay frowns, setting the weights back on the rack.

“That name sounds familiar. I think maybe Heeseung knows her?”

That tidbit takes him to Wednesday night, which always finds Jake in the library at a statistics study group Heeseung also makes a habit of attending. On their way out for the evening, Jake stops him by the door.

“___?” Heeseung pauses for a moment in contemplation. “I’m pretty sure she’s friends with Sunghoon.”

And the third piece of the puzzle proves a bit more difficult to click into place. Sunghoon is harder for Jake to find, at least in a way that comes across naturally. Much like yours, Park Sunghoon is a name Jake hears in passing more than anything. He’s a friend of friends, a mutual acquaintance that Jake has never really had a conversation with and certainly doesn’t know well enough to interrogate for your phone number.

But his most recent midterm score is still looming over his head, and the thought of retaking econ again is so nightmarish it sends a shiver down his spine every time he considers it. At this point, there isn’t much Jake wouldn’t put on the line to pass the damn class. Including his pride, apparently.

So when Jake hears from Jay who hears from Heeseung that Sunghoon will probably be at the party Epsilon Nu Eta is throwing this Friday night, he starts to formulate a plan.

And he starts to regret said plan less than twenty-four hours later when he finds himself on the doorstep of a frat party. A frat party. He can’t remember the last time he came to one of these things. At twenty-one, he already feels geriatric as he tugs self-consciously at the sleeves of the plan black long sleeve he put on for the occasion. Something that will hopefully hide the questionable stains he’ll inevitably leave with.

Entering through the front door with hinges that don’t align quite right, Jake has one mission in mind: find Park Sunghoon. Find him and somehow convince him to pass along your number. There’s a fine line to be walked there, Jake thinks. If he comes across as too eager, it will just be creepy. Nonchalance is the name of the game, but he’s never been good at keeping his cards close to his chest.

For Jake, it’s a tall order, which means the only detour he’ll allow himself is grabbing a cup of lukewarm beer from the kitchen before he sets out looking for Sunghoon. The alcohol is an effort to break the barrier of his inhibitions more than anything. To make what he’s about to do feel a little less painful.

Making his way out of the kitchen, Jake wanders aimlessly for a few minutes. He doesn’t know much about Sunghoon, other than the fact that he competes for your university’s figure skating team and is undeniably handsome. A good-looking figure skater, Jake thinks as he turns down yet another crowded hallway, narrowly avoiding spilling his drink. Where would one of those be hiding?

He spends a few more awkward minutes asking around to no avail. Just when he’s on the verge of saying fuck it and making some sort of sacrifice to the econ gods instead, Jake bumps into the man of the hour on his way to the bathroom.

In the chaos, Jake doesn’t recognize him until it’s almost too late. “Hey,” Jake calls out, bladder all but forgotten for now. He’s trying to fake an air of coolness when he adds, “Sunghoon, right?”

“Yeah.” Jake thanks his lucky stars that Sunghoon must be at least two drinks in, because he doesn’t seem weirded out at all by the sudden question from a near stranger.

“I’m Jake.” He reaches his arm out for a handshake. Blinking, Sunghoon just stares at his outstretched hand as long, awkward moments bleed into each other. Eventually, Jake just lets it fall back to his side. “I’m, uh, in a statistics class with Heeseung.”

“Right on,” Sunghoon nods, still unsure if this conversation has a point to it. Luckily, the pleasant haze clouding his thoughts means he doesn’t mind too much either way.

Jake figures there’s no point in dragging this out by exchanging more pleasantries, and he has the feeling Sunghoon might start forgetting his own name, much less yours, if he lets this continue for too long.

“Listen,” Jake starts, trying to sound as not creepy as possible. “I heard that you know ___ pretty well.”

Sunghoon just shrugs. Jake can’t tell if he’s succeeded. “You could say that.”

“I know this is a strange request, but, uh,” Jake scratches the side of his head, “is there any chance I could get her number? I promise not to do anything weird.” Word vomiting, the extra details are spilling out before he can stop them. “It’s not even for me, actually–”

Sunghoon spares him the rest of a rambling explanation. “Sorry, bud. No can do.”

Jake’s stomach tightens in panic. He really, really just needs your phone number. It has him forgetting his earlier inhibitions, throwing caution to the wind even if he’s making a bit of a fool of himself in the process. “It’s for something important, actually. I’m kind of desperate–”

Sunghoon just puts a consolatory hand on Jake’s shoulder, interrupting his train of thought. “Look, man, it’s nothing against you personally, but I have literally never met you in my life. Besides, if I gave out ___’s number to every random guy that asked, I’m pretty sure she’d shave my head.” Sunghoon leans in close, like he’s about to share a secret. Jake’s nose twists at the scent of alcohol on his breath. “And between you and me, I don’t think I could pull off being bald.”

Jake kind of begs to differ, but that’s neither here nor there. He opens his mouth to plead his case again, but Sunghoon doesn’t even let him get a word out.

“Sorry, man, but I really can’t help you.” Pausing for a moment, he considers. “You said your name was Jacob, though, right?” He doesn’t pause long enough for Jake to correct him. “I could ask her if she’s cool with giving you her number–”

“Whose number are you giving out?” And if Jake thought this conversation wasn’t enough of a train wreck already, trust the timing of your entrance to be more disastrous than divine.

Eyes turning to you and your sudden intrusion on the conversation, Jake’s mind goes blank for a minute. And yeah, he kinda gets why his brother’s so hellbent on having a second chance at your time. Dressed in all black, your hair is loose around your face. Even though it likely costs more than most people’s monthly paycheck, there’s nothing inherently special about what you’re wearing. Still, Jake is finding it exceedingly difficult to look away.

It’s something in your aura, he thinks. In the way you carry yourself. Something that money can’t buy. Something that makes his gaze want to linger.

“___!” Sunghoon grins, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, wobbling slightly. You jostle at the sudden impact, inching away from where the contents of his cup slosh dangerously close to the rim. “What a coincidence. We were just talking about you.”

Your brow creases in confusion. Jake tracks the miniscule movement with parted lips.

“You were?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon confirms, just at the same moment Jake shakes his head, “No.”

Turning your mildly concerned gaze away from your friend, you glance at Jake for the first time. Brow furrowing further, you cock your head to the side as your lips part in partial recognition. He looks oddly familiar, but you can’t quite place him. “Do I know you?”

“No.” Jake shakes his head again, a little too fervently. “I don’t think we’ve ever met. At least not properly.”

It’s an odd way of putting it. You’re about to ask him to clarify when Sunghoon cuts in, clearing up the confusion for you. “It’s Jacob,” he says, as if that should mean anything to you. Turning back to the boy across from him, he adds, “Jacob Sim, right?”

And that clicks things into place.

“Sim?” you echo, realization dawning on your features.

“Yep,” Sunghoon confirms.

Across from you, Jake says nothing. He doesn’t think he could if he wanted to. In fact, he’s pretty sure his life is flashing before his eyes.

“Sim,” you repeat one final time, jaw ticking in agitation as everything starts to settle. “I do know you.”

“Oh, really?” Sunghoon asks at your side, oblivious to the way your tone betrays obvious animosity. A distaste so palpable Jake can practically feel it radiating off of you. Turning back to Jake, he’s apologetic. “Sorry, Jacob. I guess I could have given you her number, then.” Sunghoon smiles sheepishly, as if he hasn’t just made things a million times worse. “My bad.”

Jake’s eyes widen in horror as he scrambles for some sort of defense, an explanation that will dig him out of this rapidly deepening hole, but you beat him to it.

“My number?” The look you give him has a concerning amount of venom in it. “Seriously? God, why are all you Sim men so obsessed with me?”

“That’s not–”

“First your brother views my LinkedIn profile twenty-three times after standing me up, and now you’re harassing my friends for my phone number?”

“Hold on. I’m not harassing anyone–”

“No,” Sunghoon agrees, nodding diplomatically. “Jacob was perfectly pleasant–”

“It’s Jake, actually.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah, just Jake.”

“Sorry,” Sunghoon apologizes. Turning to you, he tries mediating again. “Well, like I said, just Jake was perfectly pleasant–”

“I don’t care how pleasant he is.” Your glare somehow becomes icier. “Leave me alone, and tell your dickhead brother to do the same.” Muttering to yourself more than anything, you add, “The last thing I need right now is you practically stalking me–”

“Stalking you?” Jake flounders, an edge of annoyance creeping into his tone. He’s not surprised to learn that you really do think the world revolves around you, but really? Stalking? “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s not like I’m enjoying this interaction any more than you are.”

You don’t back down, crossing your arms over your chest. The movement has Sunghoon teetering dangerously where he leans on you, but you pay him no mind, attention focused solely on the man in front of you. “Then why do you want my phone number so bad?”

“Like I was trying to say earlier when you wouldn’t let me get a word out sideways,” Jake bites, “it’s not for me. I made a deal with someone, and I told them I’d give them your number.”

Your gaze narrows. “Who?”

“What?”

“Who did you make a deal with?”

Jake hesitates, knowing how the truth will sound. Screw it – a lie would likely be just as damning. Still, it takes him another pregnant pause to eventually admit, “... My brother.”

Scoffing in disbelief, you double down on your ire. “Absolutely not.” Shaking Sunghoon off your shoulder, you turn to leave, dragging him with you. Jake’s eyes close; he can’t bear to watch his last chance at passing this semester leave him in the dust.

So much so that he pleads again, “Wait, ___. Please.” Jake is begging now, and he feels a little pathetic for it. Still, he can’t help the way desperation drives him to continue. “You can block him for all I care. I can’t explain everything, but my life is quite literally in your hands right now. I just need–”

“No.” The single syllable vibrates with finality. “Do I have to spell it for you? N-” you bite, enunciating so sharply Jake thinks you might draw blood. “O. No. I’m not giving my number to you or your flake of a brother or anyone else that so much as looks like they might have the name Sim.”

God, is the only think Jake can think as he miserably watches your retreating figure, Sunghoon stumbling along as you drag him with you. I am so fucked.

…

When Sunghoon finally emerges from your guest bedroom an hour before noon the next day, it’s to ask if you’d be kind enough to spare him some Advil. Even with a bad case of bedhead and the aftermath of overconsumption, he still manages to look good, albeit a little lifeless.

“I’ll do you one better,” you tell him, but reach for the small white bottle anyway, shaking out a few tablets and offering them to your best friend along with a glass of cold water.

“Bagels and coffee?” Sunghoon asks over the rim of his glass, with a little more alertness in his eyes than there was moments before.

“Bagels and coffee,” you confirm. A tried and true hangover cure, if there ever was one. And even though your head is feeling nice and clear, thanks to your trusty two drink limit that has yet to fail you, the local cafe a block from your apartment is very rarely something you turn down.

Thirty minutes later and a change of clothes later, the two of you are trading gossip and stealing bites of each other’s orders when the other person isn’t looking at the table in the back corner of the cafe. Sunghoon is just about to stuff another piece of your bagel in his mouth when he notices yet another notification light up the screen of your phone.

Sunghoon nods towards where it rests on the table, bagel suddenly forgotten. “Is that your mom again?”

“Yep.” Your lips stretch thin. You don’t even need to glance down at your phone to confirm. She’s been blowing up your notifications all weekend. “She’s been on my ass about the upcoming fundraiser event for days now. And reminding me about the utmost importance of bringing an appropriate plus-one.”

Across from you, Sunghoon straightens his shoulders. “I suppose it is about time I bust out the trusty old prom suit again.”

You sigh, sending your half-eaten bagel a forlorn glance. “I wish. She told me if I ever bring you again, I lose half my trust fund.”

“What?” Sunghoon looks affronted. “Why?”

You level him with a look. “Does soap ring a bell?”

Sunghoon splutters in indignation. “That was one time,” he defends. “And anyone would have thought those were edible! They were shaped like candies, and they were on a platter–”

“Soap presentation aside, I don’t think that excuse will work on her.” The dejection in your voice is apparent. “Besides, she’s already made it very clear that you’re explicitly forbidden from attending any future family events as my plus-one.”

“Whatever,” Sunghoon grumbles. “Keep all your stupid inedible soaps.” Pausing for a moment, he realizes that still leaves a giant question hanging in the air. “Who are you gonna bring, then? You know, it kind of is too bad your date with Sim number one didn’t pan out.”

You shrug, pointedly ignoring the way your phone screen lights up yet again. It really is a bit of a shame James turned out to be an unreliable flake. One that still hasn’t bothered to apologize to you or even give any sort of indication that he remembered your scheduled date. Still, you can’t think of anyone that would earn your mother’s approval faster. “I’ll probably just fake a stomach flu.” After all, you’re kind of out of options. “I thought about asking Jungwon, but he’s got stuff going on for his internship that night. A big economics conference or something.”

“Speaking of economics,” Sunghoon leans in conspiratorially. “I think I might have some intel on our new friend from last night.”

“How was economics the segue you went with? We were literally just talking about his older brother.” Giving him a look of disbelief, you add, “And what about that interaction gave you the impression that we’re friends?”

“Whatever,” Sunghoon brushes you off before he continues, “Anyway, I heard from Heeseung who heard from Jay that apparently little Sim is hot garbage at economics. Rumor has it he’s already failed the class twice and is on track to do it again.”

You’re not sure why he’s deemed this information relevant to you, but you’d be lying if you said it weren’t a little amusing.

“Really? Jungwon’s taking it now too, and he said that he sleeps through half the lectures and is still pulling an A.”

Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “Well, we can’t all be prodigies.”

Your lips flatten. “Pretty sure you don’t have to be a prodigy to not fail an entry level course three times.”

“Hey, cut him some slack,” Sunghoon argues. “He’s only failed it twice as of now.”

You scoff, entirely uninterested in the gory details of Jake Sim’s academic failures. “Whatever.”

“Either way,” Sunghoon says, “Jay told Heeseung who told me that’s why he’s so desperate for your number.” Confusion makes itself known on your features. You still don’t see the connection until Sunghoon adds, “Apparently he made some sort of deal with his brother that if he gets him your phone number, he’ll help him pass econ.”

A beat of silence passes between you. The barista at the counter calls out a customer’s name. It’s all you can do to not let your jaw physically drop open, mostly because–

“That is probably the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life.” Glaring at Sunghoon, you can’t believe the theatrics of it all. “How many times have I told you to stop believing everything Heeseung says?”

“Technically, Jay said it,” Sunghoon corrects. “And I don’t know... It kind of makes sense when you think about it.”

You beg to differ. “It absolutely does not. What is this, middle school? Are we passing notes behind the teacher’s back and making our friends ask our crushes if they like us back?” It’s ridiculous. Absolutely, utterly ridiculous.

There is no way. Absolutely no way that James Sim, heir to a multimillion dollar company, is wasting his time giving his little brother an economics cheat sheet in exchange for your phone number.

Sunghoon raises his hands in mock surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I just thought you might be curious.”

And you hate to admit it, but you kind of are. Even though every ounce of logic you’ve accumulated in twenty-one years of life tells you that Heeseung is a notorious gossip whose stories are just as much fiction as reality and your best friend is no better. Even though the whole thing makes absolutely no sense at all.

Even though you repeat it to yourself over and over for the rest of the day, that damn curiosity is still there. Pestering you and disturbing your sleep and leaving you wondering if maybe, just maybe, some things are entirely too ridiculous to be anything but true.

…

On Wednesday night, Jake and Heeseung are in the middle of a particularly brutal probability set when a sudden shadow looms over their favorite corner table on the third floor of the library.

Glancing up, Jake finds Heeseung’s gaze already trained somewhere over his shoulder. Jake can’t quite tell if the look on his face is confusion or terror.

“Mind if I join?” The request comes from behind him, posed in an oddly familiar voice. Heeseung is nodding in agreement before Jake has the chance to so much as turn around and identify the intruder.

All is revealed soon enough, though, when you slide down into the seat next to him, ignoring the way Heeseung scrambles to move his things and make room for you in the seat next to him. Instead, you busy yourself with setting your bag on the floor and pulling out your laptop.

It’s all Jake can do to stare at you blankly. This evening, you’ve traded the all black outfit from the other night’s party for something a bit more casual, something comfortable that blends in better to the background of a university library. The sudden proximity also means that the scent of your perfume is quick to waft over towards him.

Jake does his best to hold his breath before his brain can trick him into thinking he likes it.

“Stop looking at me like that.” A bold request for someone who just hijacked a study session and sat down with no explanation, but Jake wouldn’t expect anything less from you.

“Like what?” The words are out before he gives them permission. Across the table, Heeseung is staring too, but all three of you know the command isn’t for him.

“I don’t know.” Glancing at the battery bar hovering just above empty, you dig around in your bag for a moment for your laptop charger. Jake notes that you still have yet to look at him. Instead, you begin to busy yourself with typing something on your computer. “Just stop it.”

He hopes you can feel the way his eyes burn holes into the side of your head as his blank stare shifts into a glare.

Heeseung glances between the two of you. His outburst is sudden. “Oh! I just remembered.” He hits his head for good measure. The acting is wasted on this audience, though. Neither of you pay him any mind or even bother to glance in his direction. “I have to go, uh…” he trails off, finishing lamely with a rather flat, “somewhere else.”

“Great.” Your eyes don’t leave your screen, fingers still flying on your keyboard. “See you later.”

As Heeseung scrambles to pack up his unfinished statistics homework and high tail it out of the library, the air that has suddenly become stifling, Jake glances down at where your fingers are still moving.

Distractedly, he wonders how you can type so fast with nails that long, how you never seem to need the backspace key. How none of the pastel pink that coats your fingernails seems to be so much as chipped. A projection of perfection, he thinks, down to every last detail.

Moments pass, neither of you saying anything.

You still haven’t looked at him by the time you do eventually break the impasse. “I heard you suck at econ.”

And Jake actually cannot believe you. “Did you seriously hunt me down just to rub it in?”

“Rub it in?” That at least earns him some of your attention, even if it is just a brief, confused glance as your fingers pause in their typing. “It’s not like I’m the reason you can’t pass.”

“Believe it or not, you quite literally are.”

You sigh, removing your hands from your keyboard entirely. Then, before he can blink, you spin your entire body in your chair, eyes, shoulders, and knees all directly trained on him. Jake can’t help the way he flinches back a few inches at the sudden change in pace.

“Look,” you start. He can already tell by the way you wrap the single syllable sound in patronization that he’s not going to appreciate whatever you’re about to say. “I can tell that you’re not used to, like, having conversations with people, but usually what happens is you give someone enough information so that they know what you’re talking about.” He’s right.

And he’s quick to defend himself. “Maybe I could, if you’d let me get three words out without interr–”

But you’ve moved on already. “Is the whole ‘deal with your brother’ thing true?”

Jake lets the silence linger for a moment, looking at you in disbelief. “You literally just proved my point.”

You roll your eyes. “I knew what you were going to say, so I sped things along. Now answer my question.” You lay it out for him again. This time, even more directly. “Did you try to get my number because of some deal you made with your brother?”

He’s not sure why it sounds so ridiculous, narrated back to him in your voice. It’s not like it was a brilliant, foolproof plan to begin with, but the way you present it has him feeling about five inches tall.

“I…”

“It’s a yes or no question.” You really don’t beat around the bush, he thinks.

“Yes, okay?”

Looking behind you, you suddenly lean in a little closer. It’s all Jake can do not to flinch back again. Bringing your hand up to cup your mouth, it’s like you’re about to divulge a terrible secret when you whisper, “You’re that bad at econ?”

Jake just sighs. “Worse, probably.”

Frowning, you pull back a few inches. “Aren’t you a business major? Isn’t econ, like, pretty important for you?” If he were thinking clearly, Jake might wonder how you know that. But that only thing his mind has space for right now is annoyance. At you, at this exchange, at the way you so easily pick through his flaws and seem to have no problem laying them bare at his feet like he doesn't already know them intimately.

“Yeah, well, it’s not like I got any say in my major,” Jake counters. He might have more patience for this conversation if he were having it with anyone but you, if you weren’t throwing his own insecurities back in his face with every follow-up question.

At that, something flickers through your eyes. Sympathy, maybe. “Fair enough.” Whatever it is, it’s gone before he can identify it. And it’s not enough to make you pull your punches. “Still though, that’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” Jake doesn’t need the reminder. “Just get a tutor like everyone else.”

The thing is, Jake has thought about it. On more than one occasion. He’s even gotten so far as filling out the university tutor request form. He just could never quite bring himself to complete the ‘Name’ field without all of the potential consequences forcing him to hit backspace.

He might not be his brother, but he’s not stupid enough to think that his family would ever be okay with the Sim name anywhere near a tutor form. He tells you as much. “And listen to my dad tell me how much of a disappointment I am for not being able to even take a class on my own?” Jake laughs humorlessly. “No thanks.”

A beat passes. Two. You’re not done yet, but you at least have the decency to sound a little apologetic, a little tentative when you say, “Not to kick you while you’re down or anything, but I mean, that has to be better than failing twice.”

Jake just shakes his head. “You don’t know my father.”

You shrug but don’t press the matter further. Truth be told, you don’t know his father, but you do know fathers like him. You have one of your own. The third floor of the library doesn’t seem like the place for that conversation, though, even if you’ve already uncovered more than your fair share of each other’s secrets in the last ten minutes. “I guess not.”

…

Your phone is buzzing far too incessantly for a Saturday morning, much less this early on a Saturday morning. Internally, you curse Friday night you, who forgot to switch it into do not disturb before falling asleep. Face still buried in your pillow, you reach around your nightstand blindly with the intention of remedying that particular mistake and enjoying a few more moments of peace.

Before you can make good on your plan, you make the fatal mistake of reading the message preview before silencing your phone. And suddenly, to your neverending annoyance, you’re wide awake.

Mom [7:36 am]: Looking forward to seeing you next Saturday at the fundraiser.

Mom [7:37 am]: I also noticed that you haven’t indicated who you’ll be bringing yet. Please fill out the RSVP form when you have a moment.

Mom [7:45 am]: James Sim hasn’t RSVP’d yet. Are you bringing him? You should invite him if you haven’t already.

Mom [7:53 am]: I also never heard the update after your date a few weeks ago. Hoping no news is good news. I just spoke with his father the other day, and it sounds like he’s doing great things over at their company.

Mom [8:01 am]: I also heard that he volunteered a few summers ago rebuilding turtle habitats. Wow! I think you two would get along very well.

Groaning, you flip your phone back over. That about sums up how well she knows her only daughter, you think ruefully. If she thought wooing you with turtles was a good idea, she must have forgotten that you’ve had a lingering phobia of the freaky little reptiles since your friend from elementary school had a pet turtle that bit your finger when you were at her house.

Besides, you have serious doubts that’s actually how James Sim spent his last summer in university.

If memories from your social media scrolling serve correctly, rebuilding turtle habitats was code for partying on a yacht for a month straight. You don’t care how he spends his free time, but the way he already has your mother wrapped around his stupid finger is enough to annoy any lingering sleepiness out of your system.

Whatever. James Sim’s white lies are the least of your concerns now, and they certainly won’t solve your problems. If anything, you’re starting to regret not telling your mother anything about your failed attempt at a first date with him. Now, trying to explain that disaster of an evening would only sound like an excuse at best and a flimsy lie at worst.

And even if she did believe you, you still have the glaring issue of next Saturday and your lack of a pre-approved plus-one.

With one final groan, you pull your blanket over your face, trying and failing to banish any thoughts of your mother, James Sim, and the certain disaster next weekend will be.

Despite your best efforts, your worries linger. They follow you into Sunday; they start to make you desperate on Monday. With a diminishing handful of days left until the fundraiser, your anxiety only surges.

By the time Wednesday rolls around, you’re so stressed out that you can barely force your eyes to focus on the nearly blank Word document in front of you, all of the legalese and case details you can usually sort through in your sleep jumbling into one incomprehensible blob.

Halfway through your third reread of a paragraph that details the basics of copyright law, it strikes you. The seedling of an idea so utterly ridiculous it just might be your saving grace.

Your mother probably, definitely, couldn’t care less about James Sim’s so-called affinity for wildlife rescue. No, the only thing that makes him an appropriate candidate in her eyes for this Saturday has nothing to do with his personality at all.

It’s his name that she likes. His family name specifically.

In the middle of your favorite cafe, it hits you. The seedling of an idea sprouts roots, begins to bloom.

If one Sim is good enough to be your plus-one, then surely the other one would be too.

And you know exactly where he’ll be tonight. Glancing down at the time on your phone, you force your brain to think. Now, all you need is a plan. A way to convince him. Something he can’t refuse.

Closing the lid of your laptop, you smile. You know exactly what it is he wants.

Before you leave the cafe, you send a quick message to a friend. Set your plan in place so that the details are polished, irrefutable when you present it to him.

And then you set out for the university library.

When you find Jake and Heeseung sitting at the same exact table on the third floor of the library, Heeseung doesn’t even bother to stick around for the customary greetings. Instead, he takes one single look at you before offering another flimsy excuse about having somewhere to be. Or maybe something to do. You can’t remember, and it doesn’t really matter.

After all, the only reason you’re here is because–

“I have a way for you to pass econ.” Sliding into the seat next to Jake, the same one you sat in last time, you don’t waste any time before divulging the reason for your presence.

If Jake is startled, he doesn’t show it. Statistics homework forgotten on the table, the only thing you see on his face is pure, obvious relief as his shoulders relax.

“Thank god.” Reaching for his phone, he unlocks it, tapping and swiping until he’s ready to enter a new contact. “Give me your number, and I’ll–”

You shake your head, interrupting his train of thoughts. The way you smile makes him suddenly uneasy. He thought this was over, but now he’s not so sure. You confirm his fears when you say, “A different way.”

Now Jake just looks exasperated. If you keep up this habit, he’s about to start failing statistics too. Never mind the fact that he got his hopes up for what he is sure will turn out to be a giant pile of nothing. Still, he humors you. “What do you mean, a different way?”

“I mean,” you start, folding your hands across your lap. Jake has the distinct impression that you’re trying your best to be as convincing as possible. If nothing else, it does pique his curiosity. He’s never seen you be anything but annoyed or uninterested. It’s an interesting change of pace.“I have a friend who’s also taking econ right now and hasn’t scored below a 98 on a single assignment.” Jesus, Jake thinks. Must be nice.

And then you drop the bomb on him. “He said he’s more than willing to tutor you. For money, of course.” you specify, moving on so quickly he hardly has the chance to process what you’re saying. “And it’s not like you can’t afford it, but I’ll split the cost with you. For the principle of it all.” There’s a beat of silence as what you’ve just said settles into the air. “Oh,” you add, remembering the most important detail. “And he’ll be discreet. Under the table tutoring, if you will. No chance of word getting back to Daddy Sim.”

You do your best to give him your most trustworthy smile. Jake just stares back at you, mildly horrified.

When he finally speaks again, it’s to say, “... Please, and I mean this with every single bone in my body, please never refer to my father like that again.”

Not even bothering to look sheepish, the only agreement you offer is a mock salute.

Your poor taste in nicknames aside, it does seem like a pretty sweet deal from where Jake is sitting. He cannot fail economics again, and getting a tutor would mean that his brother couldn’t hold his success over his head, couldn’t claim to be the sole reason for it. And a discreet tutor would be even better. Not going through the official university system would mean a much lower chance of his father ever finding out he got some help along the way.

All things considered, and very much to his surprise, Jake is having a hard time seeing any downsides.

He goes through the list again. First, he gets to pass economics. Second, he doesn’t have to deal with his older brother in the process. Third, he gets a tutor that won’t pop up on his father’s radar, and all Jake has to do in return is–

Wait.

“Hold on a minute.” There’s an unmistakable edge of suspicion in Jake’s voice. There’s no way you went out of your way to find him a tutor, to help pay for it, without getting something in return. The wheels in his mind are starting to spin when he asks, “What’s in it for you?”

Next to him, you smile. It’s small, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think you almost look nervous. “It’s just a small favor, really.” The expression on your face is not reassuring in the slightest. Still, you insist, “It’ll be easy, I promise. Just a few hours of your time at most.”

Jake knows better than to agree without details. And especially to anything you’re proposing. He’s already preparing to kiss his dreams of passing econ goodbye when he asks slowly,“What is it?”

You sigh, pretenses dropping. If you’re going to convince him now, you might as well do it with honesty. “That annual charity fundraiser event my parents throw. Your parents are usually there, I think. I don’t know if you’ve ever gone?”

Jake shrugs, frowning as he tries to remember. He’s not entirely sure either. After a while, fundraisers and events and family obligations all start to blur together. Although the name does ring a bell, albeit a distant, faint one.

“Anyway,” you continue, “my mother is insistent that I bring a date. Someone she considers appropriate company. You know, runs in the same circles and comes from what she would consider a good family.” Jake nods. He does know exactly what you mean. Picking up on his agreement, you add with a twinge of hopefulness, “Like I said, it would be easy. Especially for you, since you’re used to this kind of stuff. I wouldn’t have to train you–”

That has Jake rolling his eyes. “Let me guess. I get a treat for rolling over?”

The ice in your glare is half hearted. “You know what I mean. There are certain…” You weigh your words carefully. “expectations at these things.” Pausing for a moment, you add, “What I’m trying to say is that I don’t think you’ll eat the soap, even if it’s candy shaped and on a platter.”

If you were trying to clarify your point, you did a terrible job. Jake’s brow pulls downwards in confusion. “Is that supposed to be some kind of metaphor?”

“Unfortunately not.” You shake your head, but don’t explain any further. Sunghoon’s mishaps are not the point of this conversation. A mutually beneficial deal is. Which is why you ask him, “So, what do you say? Are you in or not?”

Is he? Jake says nothing, considering. Mentally, he goes through the list of pros and cons. Pros, he thinks. I get to finally pass econ, and I get to do it without my brother. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, gaze tracking the movement as you nervously bite at your lower lip. Also, I get to show up at an event with the girl he’s been trying to get for weeks now.

He’d be lying if that didn't spark a certain warm feeling in his chest, if it didn’t inspire a sudden bout of preemptive vindication. But there are other things to consider.

Cons, he continues internally. I have to spend an entire evening at an event hosted by your family and make them believe you don’t annoy the ever-loving shit out of me.

Weighing his options, Jake has one more question. “How long would it be?” he asks, and you try to stifle a grin, as if he’s already told you yes.

“The event is technically four hours,” you say carefully, “but I’m sure we could manage to sneak out after a solid two and a half.”

Jake nods, thinking it over a moment longer.

“Okay,” he finally breathes, hoping this isn’t some kind of terrible, elaborate trick, that he isn’t about to sign his life away on a dotted line.

For econ, he thinks. For what’s left of his struggling GPA. He can manage a single night at a mind-numbingly boring high society function. Even if it’s with you. “I’m in.”

And it feels a bit strange, he has to admit, as he watches you type your contact information into his contact list. It feels odd to have your number in his phone with no intention of passing it on. To know that he’s the one who will be using it to confirm the details of this Saturday. To know that his brother will be none the wiser and not at all closer to having any kind of access to you.

And if that strange surge of smugness makes another sudden appearance, well, Jake just figures that no one ever has to know about it.

…

Frowning, you give yourself another once over in the full length mirror that sits next to your vanity. A shimmering, pale gold, the evening gown that flows over your figure was hand-selected by you for this very event. For some reason, you’re having a hard time rediscovering the magic you’d felt trying it on in the showroom here in the soft, ambient light of your bedroom.

Objectively, you’re sure you must look good. The compliments the store attendants had given you were more than just customary, and gold has always been your color. Still, a slew of sudden uncertainties simmer in your gut. Is the slight sparkle too garish? Does the gold wash you out? Your worries feel too big for your bedroom, at too stark an opposition with the peaceful ambience as soft, instrumental music plays from your speaker.

But this particular Saturday evening has its ways of making you feel jumbled where you’d typically be steadfast. Insecure where you’d usually find confidence.

It’s true that your mother has always had a critical eye, and especially where you’re concerned. If you were to search deep enough, however, you’d find that she’s not the person you’re most concerned about making a lasting impression on tonight.

With no small effort, you resist the urge to smooth out invisible wrinkles in the bodice of your dress. A nervous habit more than anything, it’s only exacerbated by the way your phone is still devoid of notifications. The clock on your nightstand is a reminder that your date for the evening should be here any minute, should be sending a message as confirmation of his arrival at your apartment. But your phone is still silent, even as the hour of the fundraiser draws nearer and nearer.

Maybe this was a terrible mistake, you think, a new bout of uncertainties beginning to brew. It shouldn't be a surprise, really. Trust him to be just as flakey as his brother, with absolutely no regard for previous commitments or anyone else’s time. It’s just your luck that you get stood up again, this time by the other Sim.

You're in the middle of disguising your fears and distracting yourself by cursing him and his future bloodline when your phone finally pings with an incoming notification. Well, you think, grabbing your coat, feeling a bit ridiculous for the slight overreaction, you’ll have to look into removing generational curses when you have the time.

For now, you settle with pulling on your heels for the evening, ignoring the way you feel a bit wobbly despite the fact that you’ve walked in far worse. Locking your apartment behind you and striking a slightly unsteady pace towards the elevator down the hall, you whisper a silent plea that tonight isn’t as much of a disaster as you’re afraid it could be.

You watch as the numbers on the elevator screen tick lower and lower, a swirling mix of dread and excitement starting to swim in your stomach. When you finally reach the first floor, you’re surprised to see a familiar face waiting for you in the lobby. Something in you softens, albeit just slightly. You’d incorrectly assumed he would just wait for you in the comfort of his car and spent the whole ride down preparing to awkwardly check license plates in the near dark till you found the right one.

An overwhelming sense of self-consciousness returns to you under the brightness of the lobby lights. Unconsciously, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, wondering how long it will take him to notice you as you begin to walk towards him. You’ve only made it a few steps when it strikes you that he’s already distracted by something else.

Across the lobby, Jake Sim is engaged in a conversation with your doorman. One that looks slightly heated, by your judgment.

As you get closer, their words become more audible.

“Like I just told you,” The exasperation in your date’s voice is apparent. “I’m here to see ___.”

And you really should make your presence known, should step in and divert the brewing argument, especially since you seem to be the subject of it.

But then you look at Jake. Really look at him.

Realistically, you knew he would come well-dressed. That had been a big part of your reason for choosing him. The Sunghoon soap fiasco aside, you already knew Jake Sim wasn’t someone who needed you to put together a PowerPoint presentation on formal event dress code. He didn’t need you to explain the concept of complementary colors or the advantages of getting a suit tailored. Didn’t need you to explain that Converse were not an appropriate show or that no, a bolo tie is not acceptable attire.

Up until now, you were grateful for his pre existing knowledge. It saved you a lot of time and effort that you could use to focus on other things, like getting ready yourself. But it also meant that you were entirely unprepared to see him like this.

Eyes scanning him again, the immaculate fit of his suit is undeniable, as is the way his dark hair is perfectly mussed. It’s styled enough to avoid withering comments from elderly attendees who have the habit of asking how people see with their hair covering their eyes. But it’s also messy in a way that looks intentional, in a way that makes you want to run your fingers through it, tug at it just a little, just to tease.

It’s not just that he’s dressed well, though, despite the fact that he undeniably is.

No, what has you freezing in your footsteps is the fact that Jake looks good.

“And like I just told you, you’re not on her guest list. So I’m sorry, sir.” There is not a single trace of apology in your doorman’s voice. “But I’m afraid I can’t let you up. You’ll have to contact her and ask her to add you to her guest list.” You’re not sure how he manages to do it without losing any professionality, but your doorman makes it very clear that he thinks that will happen just as soon as hell freezes over.

Jake’s shoulders tense in visible frustration. You have to suppress an actual sigh at the way fabric stretches over the muscle there. “Again, I’m not asking you to. Could you please just let her know that I’m here? She’s not answering her messages–”

“How odd.” The sarcasm is unmistakable.

Getting a little desperate, Jake ignores the slight and continues anyway. “And we’re on a bit of a time crunch, so–”

From here, you can see the way his features start to twist in panic. It’s sobering enough to snap you out of your trance.

Cutting in, you make your presence known. “It’s okay,” you tell your doorman first. “I know him.” Then, you turn to Jake, putting on an award-worthy performance of false nonchalance when you explain, “Sorry I didn’t respond to your message. I was just on my way down.”

You watch as some of the tension drains from his features. “That’s alright,” Jake concedes easily. “I just wanted to make sure we weren’t late.”

A funny feeling, a new one, stirs again. Something in you softens. “I appreciate that.”

You can’t help the way you take another look at him. At his suit, his hair, his face. At him, at all of it.

Mistaking your gaze for scrutiny, he asks, a bit self-consciously, “What do you think? Will your mother approve?”

She will. There’s no doubt in your mind. But you’re not looking at him through her eyes when you tell him, “Yeah, you look good. Really good.”

The last part probably wasn’t necessary, but the way he flushes makes it almost worth it. Casting your eyes downward in an effort to hide a smile, you notice a detail that you missed earlier.

Jewelry. Gold jewelry. A handful of rings on his fingers and a delicate bracelet on his left wrist.

Suddenly, his message from last night makes a little more sense.

Jake [9:02 pm]: What color is your dress for tomorrow?

You [9:08 pm]: Gold. Don’t worry about trying to match. A black suit will be just fine.

Now, you’re grateful he didn’t fully listen to you, touched that he even bothered to ask.

Across from you, Jake is suddenly having a bit of a hard time breathing. The earlier near-fiasco with your doorman all but forgotten, you’re still admiring his bracelet as his eyes scan the length of you, throat bobbing by the time his gaze makes its way back up to your face.

“You, uh,” he coughs. “You look nice too.”

“Thank you.” You miss the way his gaze wanders, can’t seem to find a place to land that won’t dust the tops of his cheekbones an even deeper shade of crimson. “I’ve been looking forward to wearing this dress forever.”

And it is a nice dress, Jake thinks, but he’s not sure how to tell you that’s not what he meant.

Eyes finally landing on your feet, or rather, on the stilettos you’re wearing, he frowns. “I had to park kind of far away.” Meeting your gaze, he adds, “Why don’t you wait here? I’ll pull the car around front.”

“Okay.” Something in you melts a bit at his consideration, at the fact that he even noticed. “Thank you.”

And it is nice, you think, to not be beginning the evening with your feet already sore. To have someone pick up on the little things, even if he’s being compensated for it in the form of half-price tutoring.

Sliding into the passenger seat, you try not to sigh like a lovesick schoolgirl when he opens the door for you, when he puts his hand on the back of your seat as he reverses the car out of its parking spot. Get it together, you think. You’ve turned up your nose at far more obvious attempts at wooing you, and it’s not like Jake is here with you out of his own volition. The thought is surprisingly disappointing, as he adjusts the stereo, soft music filling the silence.

The drive passes like that, in a quiet that’s only uncomfortable if you look at it too close. Eventually, the soft melodies filtering through the stereo become a pleasant sort of background noise as you watch the world blur outside the window.

It would be smart, probably, to sort out your story for the evening and put together something coherent for when the two of you are inevitably asked invasive questions, but you can’t bring yourself to be the one to disturb the peace.

So when you arrive at the fundraiser a handful of minutes later, you just have to hope that the image the two of you strike together will be enough to stave off any unwanted questions for the time being.

Again, Jake opens your car door for you, offers a steadying hand as you step out of it. And when he gives you his arm as you enter through the front door of the venue, you take it, wrapping your fingers around his elbow. Pausing just outside the entrance, you watch as he takes a deep breath.

“Ready?” You’re not sure if you’re asking him or yourself.

Jake answers for the both of you. “Let’s do this.”

Walking through the lobby, you hand your jackets to the coat check attendant before entering the ballroom where the fundraiser is held. Despite your general distaste for this evening and everything it entails – you sneak a glance at your partner in crime. Well, mostly everything – you can’t help but admire the space around you.

Decorated immaculately down to every last element, your mother truly doesn’t spare any expense or detail when it comes to throwing parties. And like always, she somehow manages to have a sharp eye on everything and everyone, no matter how chaotic or busy. You’ve hardly taken two steps inside the ballroom when she finds you, approaches you will all the grace of a panther stalking its prey.

Pulling you in for a quick hug, the warm greeting she gives you is more for the benefit of onlookers than for you. And it forces you to remove your hand from Jake’s arm.

Looking over your shoulder, her voice is sickeningly saccharine. “And this must be James,” she beams, making eye contact with the wrong brother. Directing her attention to him, she gushes, “My daughter has told me wonderful things about you.”

Your eyebrows raise in disbelief. Jake stifles a laugh, expertly turns it into a cough.

Really? You think. She did all that digging on James’ so-called turtle philanthropy but never bothered to pull up a picture of the guy? And you mean, standard genetic similarities aside, it’s not like the two of them look that much alike.

“Actually, mom,” you spare him the expense of having to correct her mistake, “this is Jake Sim. James’ brother. We go to school together.”

“Oh,” her eyebrows fall at the slip, no doubt an unforgivable social faux pas in her mind. “You never filled out the RSVP form, sweetie,” she somehow makes the term of endearment sound like a curse, “so I wasn’t sure who you’d be bringing.” Trust her to find a way to make her mistake your fault.

Turning back to your date, she tries to remedy her mistake. “Jake, then.” She offers him a smile so forced you’re surprised her cheeks aren’t aching. Looking back at you, she fishes, “And he’s your…?”

Her dangling bait goes untouched. “He’s my plus-one.” It’s an intentional choice of words on your part. In your mind, it’s a neutral enough term that will hopefully let you navigate the evening without too many rumors or invasive questions about your personal life from people you only speak to out of reluctant obligation.

Jake is less used to the way your mother tends to poke and prod, the way she likes to examine the superficial details of your life with a microscope and make sure she can frame them in a way that will be pleasing for public perception. The way she doesn’t ask about your love life because it’s of any genuine interest to her, but because she wants sole control of the rumor mill’s production.

Next to you, he stiffens, feels as though he’s already failed some kind of test he didn’t know he was taking, wasn’t given any materials to study for.

There’s a lot to be said, probably, about the way you pick up on his discomfort so easily. The way your hand returns to the crook of his elbow wordlessly and gives a single, gentle squeeze. Reassuring him, putting his nerves at ease, as you begin to navigate your way out of this conversation.

“We’d better find our seats,” you tell your mother. The only reason Jake can identify the icy edge hiding in the superficial sweetness of your voice is because he’s been on the receiving end of it. On multiple occasions. Directed at someone else, he finds it almost amusing. “Wouldn't want to miss anything.”

“Of course,” your mother concedes, but there’s an undertone there. Jake can tell that there’s a war being waged here, battles and skirmishes in subtext and stilted pauses. He’s no stranger to the way high society likes to wrap up insults in niceties and skirt around delicate topics, but his own family has never been anything but blunt when it comes to their distaste for him and his choices.

He’s still not entirely sure what he just witnessed, but you’re dragging him by his arm to find your assigned table before he can sort through the offending slights and put on armor that may be of any use to you.

Carefully arranged, the maze of tables is easy enough to navigate. Each seat has a white place card in front of it, embossed with a shimmery golden script that matches your dress and holds the name of the guest who’s been assigned to sit there.

You drag Jake past a flurry of names and attendees he half recognizes, stopping only to grab two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to Jake before you continue on your mission. After another minute of searching, you find your name at a table a few rows out from the far wall. Rolling your eyes, you can practically hear your mother’s reasoning: Not too close to the wall. Wouldn’t want people thinking I’m trying to hide her. But certainly not anywhere near the center of the room, in case she falls into that pesky habit of being an awful embarrassment.

Standing behind your chair, your eyes find the place card stationed in front of the seat next to yours at the same time Jake’s do.

“Oh my god.” The exasperation is apparent, even though your words are barely audible where you mutter them under your breath.

Because of course this hasn’t already been enough of a train wreck. Because of course the place card next to yours doesn’t have Jake’s name on it. Nope, embossed in the same shimmery gold is the name of another person entirely.

James Sim.

You turn to your date, apologetic. “God, I’m sorry. I really didn’t fill out the RSVP form, but I didn’t think she’d just assume…”

“It’s okay.” Jake gives you some grace. “Really, it wouldn’t be the first time.” And all things considered, he kind of is in his brother’s seat tonight. Attending an event that’s better suited for the future head of the company than his forgotten younger brother. Accompanying the girl that public opinion surely dictates would be a better match for him.

Still, you frown. Reaching for the small clutch that sits against your hip, you rummage for a moment before pulling out a black permanent marker.

Jake glances at you sideways.Your bag of the evening is tiny, barely even big enough to hold your phone. He’s surprised you managed to fit the marker in there, much less prioritize it enough to bring it with you. “You carry that thing around with you all the time?”

You shrug. “Never know when you’ll need to do some DIY vandalism.”

It would be a lie if he said something in him doesn’t soften, just a bit, when he watches you reach for the place card in front of his seat and put a giant, bold X over his brother’s name.

Your handwriting is no match for the computer-generated script, but Jake still likes the place card a little better when you’re done with it, likes the way his name looks next to yours when you set it back on the table, alterations completed.

“There,” you say, looking entirely too satisfied with your handiwork. “All better.” This time, you slide down into your seat before Jake has the chance to pull it out for you. Turning to him as he tentatively takes the seat next to you, he finds a small frown on your lips. “Wait,” you pause, realization written across your features. “Your brother isn’t coming, right?”

Jake shakes his head. “I mean, I don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. He has no reason to come. My parents are on a business trip, so they won’t be here either. And that also probably means he’s more swamped than usual at the office.”

Nodding, you take a sip of champagne. “Good.” Pausing, your lips quirk. “Although it would be kind of funny if he–”

“I think you’re in my seat.” The sudden interruption is flat, leaves no room for arguments.

Startled, the two of you spin in your chairs.

James Sim, despite his brother’s predictions, is in fact not otherwise occupied at his office. Instead, he stands directly behind his younger sibling, strikes an imposing figure where his shadow blocks the chandelier light behind him and extends over his brother and his altered place card.

Eyes flaming, he looks at where his name has been crossed out. Replaced.

Next to Jake, you remain silent, figure that you’ll let Jake handle this one the way he let you handle your mother. Far be it from you to step in on a family matter.

But then you notice the way Jake shrinks a little in his seat, hides a little further in his brother’s shadow. Reaches for the place card like he wishes he could take it back.

Sliding your gaze back to your least favorite Sim sibling, your voice is even, albeit icy, when you point out the obvious, “It’s not actually. Can’t you read?” Jake’s hand stops in its tracks, falls back to his lap.

A quick look your way is the only indication James even hears you. Instead, he continues his one-sided conversation with his brother, a barely controlled sort of fury crossing over his expression. “Hm,” he muses, glancing between the two of you. “Sure seems like you two are awfully close.” Casting an accusatory glare at Jake, he adds, “That’s funny. I could have sworn you said you barely knew her.”

Her. You’re sitting right there, and you don’t even get a name.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by Jake either. And it turns out to be just what he needs to find his voice. You’re almost proud of the sarcasm he manages to muster when he counters, “Yeah, well, this funny thing happens when you spend time together. You actually get to know each other.” Straightening his spine, there’s an unmistakable edge in his voice when he adds, “You know, when you actually bother to show up, that is.”

You hide a laugh behind your hand, albeit not very well. Glancing at Jake, a feeling swells in your chest that you can only identify as pride. You didn’t know he had it in him.

Reassessing his strategy, James turns to you, forcing a nonchalance that is entirely contradicted by the way his cheeks are rapidly reddening. “Actually, ___,” he tries, acting as if the last thirty seconds faded out of existence at his will. “I was hoping to speak to you about something. I’d love to get you a drink if you–”

“Actually,” Jake cuts in, doubling down. “We already have drinks.” Behind you on the table, the two near full glasses of champagne are undeniable evidence. The laugh that spills out of you this time is impossible to hide. Yeah, you decide, between the two of them, you definitely hate James more. Entirely amused, the only thing you wish you had is a bowl of popcorn as you root for the underdog. Not that he needs it. Much to your satisfaction, he’s been landing his punches well.

The giggle dies on your lips, though, when you feel the warmth of another hand suddenly cover the top of yours where it rests on your thigh. Gaze flaming, James follows the movement. Startled, your eyes fly to Jake. The only view you’re offered is of his profile as he keeps his gaze trained on his brother, the challenge in his features unmistakable.

The only consolation he offers for your sudden shock is a small, reassuring squeeze against your knuckles.

And then he says, “And I’d like to keep my girlfriend right here, actually.” At that, he does finally turn to you, eyes pleading, gaze imploring when he seeks your permission. Even though they’re performative in nature, his words aren’t solely for James’ benefit. “If that’s alright with you, that is.”

Girlfriend.

You were perfectly happy in the role of the observer, but now Jake has dragged you into the spotlight. Even though it pains you, you know you can’t leave him hanging. Not when that would mean a sure victory for his dickhead of a brother.

Girlfriend. The word echoes in your head, has you feeling dizzy.

“Of course,” you return hollowly, barely recognizing the sound of your own voice over the sudden rushing in your ears. “Boyfriend.”

When you smile at him, you make sure it looks sickeningly sweet enough to deter James. Your eyes, however, flash with a warning only Jake can read.

“You’re dating?” James can’t hide his shock, and his outrage is just as obvious.

“Yep,” Jake passes you a panicked look. But you don’t need it, don’t need his convincing. You’ve already dug yourself a deep enough hole. Trying to climb out now would only mean everything crumbles.

“Sure are,” you confirm with a tight smile. Turning back to Jake, you add, “Actually, sweetie, I need to talk to you about, uh…” you scramble for a moment. Finish vaguely with, “that thing.”

“Right.” Jake picks up on the threat in your eyes seamlessly, knows there’s only one acceptable response. “That thing,” he echoes.

“Yeah, so,” you turn back to James, barely acknowledging him as you start to stand. “We’re gonna step out for a minute.”

Jake is all but putty in your hands as you switch the positioning of your grip so that the hand that was resting on yours is now encased firmly between your fingers.

“See you later,” are Jake’s breathless parting words to his brother.

“Hopefully not, though,” you alter.

And then you’re dragging him back through the crowd towards the exit, and it’s all Jake can do to not run into the other guests or knock over the delicately balanced trays of hors d’oeuvres waiters carry throughout the room. He’s at your mercy all the way through the double doors of the ballroom, and you pause only briefly to determine which hallway is less likely to have people in it before deciding on the one to the right, towing him along behind you.

Once you’re far enough away from unwanted eyes and ears, you start wiggling every door knob you come across, growing visibly more frustrated until you finally find an unlocked one. Huffing, you push Jake into the spare storage closet first. Following him in, you close the door behind you.

The sudden change in space puts you in close proximity. Your nose is only a handful of inches away from his when you start laying out accusations.

“What the hell?” With the same hand than just dragged him on a half marathon, you shove at his chest. “Boyfriend?” You have half a mind to grab the broom standing next to you and start whacking him with it.

“I’m sorry!” Jake holds his hands up defensively. He doesn’t miss the way you’re eyeing every cleaning tool around you, no doubt deciding which would make the most effective weapon. “I panicked, okay? I just hate that smug little look he gets on his face–”

“Well you’re about to be seeing ‘that smug little look’ a lot more once he calls your bluff!” you half-shout, trying to convey your anger without alerting anyone to your presence.“The timeline barely lines up to begin with. It’s only been what, a few weeks since I was supposed to go on a date with him? And that’s not to mention the fact that there won’t be anyone to corroborate our story, because we don’t spend any time together, since, y’know, we’re not dating.”

Jake begs to differ. You’ve invaded more than one of his Wednesday night statistics study sessions.

But before he can point this out, you’re continuing. “Which means you’re gonna have to come up with some sort of believable explanation for why we break up after, like, three days.”

“Ugh.” Jake drags an open palm down his face. He hates to admit it, but you do have a point there.

Fingers running through his hair, his sudden stress is apparent. And you’re not trying to send him to an early grave, but would it have killed him to think before he spoke? Consider the consequences of starting the exact kind of rumor you’ve been hoping to dodge all evening? You get that his brother is not exactly an easy person to get along with, but was the short-lived victory really worth the potential fallout?

Across from you, Jake seems to be having the same realizations. A million thoughts whirring through his brain, he’s not sure where to place his focus.

After a moment, he settles on optimism. “Look, I think it will be fine.” The more he thinks about it, the more he convinces himself he believes it. “James has been up to his ass in company stuff since the second he graduated, so it’s not like he has extra time to check up on us or anything.” And even if he did, James would have no way of knowing who to ask. Jake has the sneaking suspicion his older brother couldn’t name a single one of his friends if his life depended on it. He would have no idea who to track down to corroborate your so-called romance.

“We won’t have to do anything,” Jake reasons. “I’ll just mention you in passing for the next few weeks if he happens to ask.” Even that should be simple enough. After all, Jake seriously doubts he will. “And by the time the holidays roll around, I can just say things fizzled naturally.” Easy. Simple. Uncomplicated. Mutual, and your pride and his both remain intact. “No big deal.”

Across from him, you weigh his words. It makes sense, yes, but there’s something starting to swirl in your gut that you don’t like. It feels a little too much like dread, like trepidation. Jake can read all of the uncertainty written across your face when you tell him, “I still don’t like it. My mother and your brother were both here tonight and already got different stories from us. This could get messy really quickly. I mean, what if our families start talking–”

“They won’t.” Jake shakes his head. “Your mom thinks I’m just a plus-one, and when my name comes up in James and my father’s conversations, it isn’t to discuss the ins and outs of my dating life.” Of this, at least, Jake is sure. His father couldn’t care less who he dates, as long as it’s not a liability to him, to the company. “Besides, we're university students.” Jake tries to lighten the mood, clear some of the tension. “Twenty-one and immature and all that.” For a moment, Jake imagines what life would feel like if that’s truly all he was, if that’s the only thing he got to be. No added pressure of a notorious last name and a reputation to maintain. Tucking that thought to the back of his mind, he decides he’ll mourn it later. “A short-lived relationship with a story that doesn’t quite add up is practically a right of passage. Not something to be suspicious of.”

You remain silent for a moment, but your hand doesn’t get any closer to the broom.

“Okay.” Some of the tension seeps out of your shoulders as you turn his reasoning over in your brain, nodding as his logic starts to piece together. “Okay,” you reiterate. You still don’t like it, but he’s right about one thing: it is the best option you have.

After all, there’s no way in hell you’re about to go tell your mother that your plus-one is actually your secret boyfriend, and you hate to admit it, but James’ little smirk is incredibly agitating. And it will all blow over, you’re sure. Like Jake said, James and your mother have no real reason to talk, and if Jake is convinced that his brother won’t be spreading this particular rumor, you’ll just have to believe him for the time being.

Letting him out of the closet first, you only imitate hitting him upside the back of the head once before you catch up to him, linking arms again before reentering the ballroom.

As the evening goes on, your worry starts to subside. Thankfully, every other part of the night goes perfectly to plan, even if you do have to force yourself to laugh a little too hard at one of Jake’s awful jokes when you catch James watching the two of you. The second glass of champagne you down helps, if nothing else.

Exactly as you predicted, after two and a half hours have passed, you and Jake are sneaking out the back exit, tiptoeing to his car as the fourth speaker of the evening continues their droning speech inside the event. Your mother is none the wiser to your early departure, and you hope it’s the first in a series of victories for the evening.

When Jake drops you off just outside the front doors of your apartment building, his smile is almost reassuring enough to put that lingering sense of unease to rest where it still sits in your gut.

Makeup removed, hair washed, and evening gown traded for pajamas, sleep is slow to find you a handful of hours later. Eventually, though, it does, and your rest is undisturbed, dreamless.

…

The next morning, with nothing but the pastel tones of sunrise and the sound of his brewing coffee maker to keep him company, Jake Sim stares at the message on his phone in abject horror.

Mom [7:32 am]: I can’t believe I had to find out from your brother! Family dinner next weekend at our place. Bring your girlfriend. :)

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CONTINUED IN PART 2

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note: thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed. part two still needs some love, and I'm hoping to have it out around this same time next week. I'll announce for sure when I have a release date & time. as always, I love hearing any thoughts/comments/screaming you may have. happy reading!

#enhypen fanfiction #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen fic #enhypen ff #enhypen fanfic #enhypen au #enhypen scenarios #enhypen fluff #enhypen angst #jake sim #jake sim x reader #jake sim x you #jake sim scenarios #sim jaeyun #sim jaeyun x reader #sim jaeyun x you

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Text

trust me, I’ve got nothing for you other than love

warnings/tags: minors DNI, 18+, dark themes, implied babytrapping, woc!reader, mafia!AU (background), arranged marriage!AU, pregnancy, lovesick!lando, reader is on birth control but is she really?, manipulation, gaslighting, obsession, possessive behavior, dark!lando, these tags are not exhaustive

wc: 5.3k (what happened here...)

summary: Your marriage vows are til death do you part but Lando sees no harm in ensuring your forever is, well, forever.

dividers by @/cafekitsune :)

unedited, unbeta'd, etc. this was supposed to be maybe 2k but...here we are... anyway! there's a bigger background plot going on but I cannot be bothered to expand on it aldkjfas please let me know your thoughts and happy reading!!

also! sinha = lion in bengali :)

“You just have to meet him, sinha.”

Through the grainy FaceTime call, your mother’s patient expression holds a touch of exasperation. She’s not scolding you but it’s a close call.

“No expectations?”

She shakes her head. “No expectations,” she promises and then she softens. She looks less like the wife of a criminal and more like your mom. “If you don’t like him—”

“Let me know what day he is free and I’ll clear up my schedule,” you interrupt, unable to bear listening to platitudes. It doesn’t matter if you like or dislike Lando Norris. Your father needs his family’s power and resources. This is a formality for your sake.

There are no expectations because this isn’t a choice.

You make a show of looking away from the camera as if being called and then look back at her with an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, I have to go. Someone’s at the door.” Your mother tries to say something else but you interrupt her with a hurried, “Love you! Bye.”

The call cuts. Your mother’s disappointed face lingers for a moment longer and then the screen fades to black.

Breathing out a heavy sigh, you rub at your face. Your parents have a way of forcing your hand and making it seem as if they are doing you a favor.

Objectively, Lando is nice. There is little overlap between your circle of friends and his but there is overlap and it lies with Carlos Sainz Jr.

Carlos has had nothing but good things to say about Lando when the topic is broached.

“A little immature but it is to be expected,” he laughed, wine sloshing in his glass. “He’s annoying. Like a little younger brother.”

That glowing review is all you have to go off of until Xavier comes back from his recon mission. You don’t think following Lando around with a camera necessitates such a dramatic title but it is not your opinion they ask for.

You’ve heard of what he is capable of but it is not the red flag it should be. Perhaps it is misguided and shockingly insensitive of you, but you care more if he will be a good person to you. You don’t need his affection but you do need his respect. And with that, you’ll need him to care about you enough to want to keep you safe. A man who feels obligated to keep you safe is not one you want.

Your phone pings. The screen lights up with a message from your father.

Clear your schedule for next Saturday. Wear something nice. Details to come.

Your spoon is halfway out of your mouth when Lando sits across from you.

His hair is perfectly styled to look effortless. A stray curl hangs down his forehead and only adds to his boyish charm.

He grins at you, eyes bright and shoulders relaxed. A backpack is slung over his shoulder and he’s wearing a sweatshirt and sweatpants. They are of good quality but the lack of suit emphasizes his youth.

You’re suddenly struck by how young the two of you must look. It will be many years before Lando is expected to take over his father’s position but looking at him now, you can’t imagine such a situation. You know better, though, given his reputation.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

It’s so ridiculous it makes you laugh. “You really know how to keep a girl waiting, huh?” you say, more amused than not.

He’s fifteen minutes late but you don’t mind. Tardiness is the last thing you worry about in a partner. His body count, for example, is a more pressing matter.

The illegal one that is.

“I see you’ve gotten some food though,” he says, nodding towards the parfait you ordered. “Care to share?”

You offer him your spoon and when he reaches out, you pull your hand back. “Any allergies?”

He leans over the table and grabs your wrist. Dipping his head down, he takes a bite. “None,” he says around the granola.

You make a noncommittal noise. So far, he matches what Xavier’s detailed about him. There’s an easy going air about him which loosens the tension in your muscles. However, as much as you’d like this to be a normal introduction, you and Lando are working on borrowed time. So you’ll need to speed this along.

A litmus test might do the trick.

“Alright, let me see it.”

His smile disappears. “See what?”

“The file you have on me.”

He props his head with his hand. He’s careful as he says, “I don’t have a file on you.”

Leaning back into your chair, you cross your arms over your chest. You let the silence stretch between the two of you as you appraise him. When he continues to maintain his confused look, you sigh. It is foolish of you to think Lando will be honest. Honesty has no place for a marriage such as the one you will have with him.

“Okay,” you say simply. You tap your fingers against the table, a quick three beat tune before you give him a singular nod. “Let me know when and where to show up for our wedding. I’m impartial to a courthouse wedding but,” and you shrug, “It’s up to you.”

He straightens up. There’s a predatory stillness to him. “That’s it?”

You reach for your bag. He’s rented out the entire restaurant for the two of you so you’re sure the wait staff are being paid an exorbitant wage today. But it won’t hurt to leave a good impression in case you find yourself back here. You peruse your wallet, thankful you remembered to bring cash with you. “Yeah. Sorry to waste your time.” You’re perfunctory if not a little clipped with your response.

You think you’ll grab some lunch on the way back. The parfait, while good, only served to whet your appetite.

“Hold on.”

You can’t help but glance at your watch but you wait patiently as he gathers his thoughts.

“Why go through all this fuss?” Lando twirls his finger. “If you are leaving within—“ He looks at his watch and clicks his tongue, “Ten minutes?”

“I’ve been here for half an hour,” you remind him coolly. He winces but still offers no excuses nor an explanation for his lateness, so you steamroll ahead. “And if you’re willing to lie to me about something we both know is true,” you spread your hands out helplessly, “Then why bother with this? I’m sure my parents told you they set this up to appease me and you know what? Consider me appeased.”

He mouths appeased silently to himself. “You’re mad because you think I lied?” he clarifies, furrowing his brows.

“I’m mad because you are lying,” you correct icily.

“You really think I’d lay all my cards on the table so easily?”

“A file is all your cards?” you challenge.

His jaw locks. “No.”

You decide to cut him some slack. You dig through your purse and produce a folded stack of papers. Your parents were able to pull a sizable amount of information on Lando. It is supposed to remain confidential but this is your future marriage after all. You will be the one dealing with the Norris’, and Lando in particular, not them. You were rereading them up until you ordered and you presume Lando was doing the same given how last second this meeting is.

“I don’t want there to be an uneven playing field,” you say, waving the papers. “I want us to have a clean start.” Then you grimace. “As clean of a start as we can,” you amend.

He eyes the manilla folder. It’s fairly thick and you’re sure your color-coded tabbing only makes it more enticing. Lando kisses his teeth before reaching into his own backpack and pulling out a file. It’s much slimmer than the one you have on him.

You itch to reach over and take it but you restrain yourself. Placing your elbows over Lando’s file, you balance your head on one of your hands, mirroring his earlier lackadaisical pose. “So, is orange really your favorite color?”

“They have that in your file?”

He’s torn between being impressed and incredulous. It makes you wonder what they’ve managed to find on you.

You pull out a photo from your file. Flipping it over, you show him at a random dinner a couple weeks ago. You still don’t know how Xavier managed an invite to such a close-knit dinner but you suppose it’s best to not ask questions. “No. You just wear a lot of orange.”

He tries to snatch the photo out of your grasp but you quickly tuck it back into its place. “You have pictures of me?”

“I’ll show you mind if you show me yours.”

He rewards you with a laugh. “Yeah, s’fair.”

You pass over some of your photos and Lando does the same. You’re mildly terrified of how many Lando hands to you but he does not share the same reservations.

Lando flips through the photos. He keeps his expression neutral, betraying nothing as he sees how he’s been tailed without his knowledge.

“Do you have a favorite?”

You take a second too long to answer. “…Yes.” A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth but you refuse to let him embarrass you. “Do you have one?”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he mocks. Without needing to sort through your pile, he reaches over and takes the one off the top. He places it flat down in front of you, waggling his eyebrows as he does so.

You motion for him to hand you the ones he’s holding and he obliges. It takes a short amount of time even with your feigned studying of the pictures to pick one out.

All of them vary in degrees of how off guard Lando looks but this one in particular looks as if it is any run of the mill day for him. He’s laughing, fingers digging into his friend’s arm for balance. His eyes are crinkled and there’s a lightness to him that seems as if it’s attached to him at all times.

You swallow. Heat begins to collect underneath your cheeks. You hope Lando does not realize how much this photo flays you open.

You slide across the table, face down as well, and wait for him.

“On three?” he suggests.

You can’t look at him. You’ve accidentally laid your heart on a platter and now you must let Lando decide if it’s worth devouring. “On three.”

“One…two…”

You don’t know what you were expecting but you do know it is not this.

“Oh my god,” you groan, cheeks warm for an entirely different reason now.

You’re lounging by the pool in an outfit that is appropriate when you think you’re not being photographed by a random man’s family. You’re shading your eyes with your hand, mouth in a pout as you consider someone in the distance. Odds are, you were arguing with your friend Hiba about something stupid.

However, discomfort soon replaces the embarrassment seeping into your skin as you make a mental check of when you last hung out with Hiba by the pool. That had been…months ago. Your parents had made it seem as if this arrangement was a recent idea and not one they’ve been concocting for months.

Your vision flickers for a moment as your blood rushes to your head. At least they decided against springing a surprise wedding upon you, you suppose. It can always be worse.

Lando lingers on his photo and then puts it down. “So lying is a big deal to you.” He frames it as a statement and yet, he glances up at you through his lashes. His bottom lip is tucked beneath his top teeth.

You thumb your stack of photos, hesitant to see the images that have created the baseline of Lando’s perception of you. A sharp pain flares at the corner of your thumb. Blood is smeared across the white edges of the photos. You press your tongue against the paper cut to stave off the pain. Lando follows the quick flick of your tongue.

“It can be,” you admit. You are many things but you are not unrealistic. There will be things Lando must keep from you, husband or not, for your safety and his. But you don’t think it to be too tall an ask for some modicum of honesty to be what the both of you default to. “I want to trust you. And I want you to trust me.”

“So you’ll be willing to divulge all of your family’s secrets then?” Steel underlays the playful tease in his voice.

You keep yourself from rolling your eyes but it’s a near thing. He is so dramatic. “You will be my family when we’re married.” An emotion you can’t place flits across his face. Filing it away for later, you point at him. “And you lied about something easy to disprove. I’d rather us not act like we’re strangers when I practically have a minor in Lando Norris and vice versa.”

He nibbles the granola from your yogurt. “A minor, huh? You’re that confident?”

You tilt your head. “Should I have booked a seafood restaurant instead for dinner then? I heard Mariana’s does an excellent salmon.”

“Ugh, no. They got that correct.”

You share a smile with him. The tension cracks, giving the two of you breathing room. “Look, I’m not asking for full discretion for the…unsavory parts. Just you know.” You shrug.

“A partnership,” he supplies.

You make a so-so motion with your hand. “Is that what we want to call it?”

“Well, I’m a bit of a romantic so…” His voice trails off suggestively. But the brightness in his eyes lets you know he’s mostly kidding.

You bite the bait he’s hanging so lowly in your face. Compromise is one of the commandments of marriage, right? “Oh, are you now?”

He nods slowly. He finishes off the parfait and now points the smeared spoon at you. “Just you wait.”

“Alright Romeo, let’s start with a date first,” you say, unable to keep from smiling. “I promised you that much, didn’t I?”

He slaps his hands against his thighs. “That you did. Steak wasn’t it?”

You make a face. “Boring but yes. Short notice and all.” You drop a couple bills onto the table before slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Ready to sweep me off my feet?”

“Born ready,” he drawls, standing up.

You don’t miss the flash of silver at his waist. The sweatpants don’t do a good job of hiding what’s hidden there but maybe that is the point.

He catches your wandering eye and extends a hand towards you. His fingers are callused and rough but it’s soothing to you. You’ve never known a soft touch in your life and Lando is no exception.

“I take care of what’s mine,” Lando assures you. “You won’t have to worry about a thing with me.”

His smile is all teeth.

It’s overwhelming to be the object of Lando’s desire you come to find out.

“Lando, not here,” you breathe, eyeing his closed but unlocked office door. His lips drag across your throat, open-mouthed and with a hint of teeth.

“I’m a newlywed I think I can be forgiven,” he says, rucking your dress up higher on your body. The edge of his desk digs into your thighs but you hardly notice as Lando traces his nose down your hammering pulse. “Or did you wear this—“ His fingers stop crawling around your hips when he realizes there is no scrap of fabric lying against your skin. He runs his hand over your smooth skin again as if to do a sanity check. “Oh, you’re such a tease.”

He looks up at you through heavily lidded eyes and you grin. With how voracious Lando’s appetite for you is, you didn’t think underwear was worth the chance he might ruin another pair of panties. You’re still mourning that hot pink set he ripped with his teeth.

“Didn’t feel like leaving you something to remember me by this time,” you quip, spreading your legs.

Lando groans, sliding his hand down your thigh until his fingers brush against you. “Fuck, you’re going to kill me,” he says raggedly. He nips at your throat, the bite sharp enough to leave the imprint of teeth. The pain dissolves as the fever in your blood heightens. He soothes the faint sting with a wet kiss, apologetic and unrepentant at the same time.

He sinks two demanding fingers into you with ease. You turn your face into his bicep, trying to keep yourself from gasping too loudly. Your teeth dig into the fabric as his fingers curl up, nudging a spot inside that heats your blood to an inferno. You whimper, urging him closer. Lust clouds your senses and makes his teasing touches torturous.

He drags his thumb across your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure cascading down your spine. The muscles in your thighs tighten and your knee hitches up to his side.

Lando huffs a laugh, blowing cool air against your sweaty skin. “Thought you didn’t want this,” he mocks.

“I changed my mind,” you say. Unbuckling his belt, you try to shove his pants down. An impatient whine accompanies you when he doesn’t make it easier for you. “Hurry up.”

He kisses his way down from your jaw to your chest, ignoring how you plead with him. His lips skate across your nipples, tongue darting out to circle them briefly before he drags that same traitorous tongue up the line of your chest.

“Stop being mean,” you whine, trying to push his head off of you.

“You like when I’m mean.” But he acquiesces, shoving down his pants.

The head of his cock nudges at your entrance and your stomach twists. The smooth head rubbing against your cunt has you faltering, reminding you of where you are. You almost want to tell Lando to wait but then he’s hiking your leg over his hip as he sinks into you.

A gasp is punched out of you as he stretches you around his cock. He doesn’t give you time to adjust, instead, choosing to press himself into you even further, reaching somewhere in you you didn’t even know existed.

Lando drives into you, his pace so rough that you can hardly catch your breath.

You moan, a broken guttural sound that Lando swallows greedily.

“You don’t want the others to hear, hmm?” he whispers against your ear. His fingers trail over you, featherlight and too much on your oversensitive skin. Yet, you arch into the touch anyway.

Warmth begins to build up in your belly and you feel it down to your toes. Lando slides his hands underneath your hips and yanks you forward, forcing you to take him down to the hilt.

Tears blur your vision. Your blood pounds so loudly in your ears you no longer hear the muffled sounds of Lando’s business partners outside. A shuddering sob of Lando’s name escapes your lips.

“That’s it,” he croons. “Just like that.”

Lando rubs his thumb against your clit, synced with his thrusts. Before long, you’re tightening up and coming all over his cock.

He loses his rhythm as you whine against the sensitivity. With his chest pressed against you, you can feel all of him tense up. He jerks his hips into you shallowly one, two times before you feel the telltale warmth.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect,” he mumbles, resting his head against your collarbone.

Lando lifts your hand and curls your fingers so he can press a kiss against your wedding ring. And you think, yeah, this is a man you can learn to love.

The two lines weren’t enough to convince you but the ‘pregnant’ staring up at you is harder to dismiss.

You still rub at your eyes, hoping once your vision clears again, you’ll see the ‘not’ that is surely hidden. You wait a few seconds until your eyes adjust and the result does not change.

An anxiety induced nausea begins to curdle the little food that is left in your stomach.

You’re pregnant.

You’ve only been married for six weeks.

There’s a knock on the door. “Babe? You okay?”

You can practically hear Lando making the mental decision not to jangle the door knob though you know it kills him not to. Instead, he leans against the door. The wood creaks underneath his weight.

Somehow, you wet your throat enough to not have your voice crack as you call out, “Yeah, I’ll be out in a minute.”

You put the pregnancy tests back into the box and shove it behind your pads underneath the sink. Carefully shutting the cabinet door, you stand up and wash your hands. Your motions are methodical as if it is someone else commandeering you to scrub at your hands and dry them on the towel.

You turn the door knob slowly, pushing the door outwards. Immediately, Lando gathers you into a hug when you step out.

“I missed you,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the underside of your jaw.

You return his hug, perhaps squeezing him a little tighter than you usually do. “I missed you, too,” you say automatically. You’re still processing the two lines and the definitive pregnant you saw. If you had taken only one test, you could have convinced yourself it was a fluke. But two tests from two completely different companies would beg to differ.

“You okay?” he repeats, pulling back so he can look at you.

You don’t know how to lie to him so you say, “Just a little nauseous, that’s all.”

His attention sharpens. “Nauseous?”

“Mm hmm.” You try to duck underneath his arm but Lando holds you back.

“Hold on,” he cautions, running a critical eye over you. “For how long?”

You rack your brain for an evasive answer that will suffice but Lando is like a shark scenting blood in the water.

“How long?” he urges. There’s something wild lurking in his eyes. It cuts a serrated edge to his voice.

You won’t look at him. “I mean,” you hedge. “A while?”

That doesn’t cut it. “How long is a while?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t keeping count!” you snap, throwing your hands up in the air.

“A couple of days? A week? Weeks?”

“Lando.”

He tries to smooth out the impatience in his expression. “My love, please humor me. I’m worried.”

You take a breath and count to ten. Running your tongue over your teeth, you try to remember the first time you felt this bone deep nausea that made you want to take your stomach out of your body. “Five days,” you say. “Now, can we go eat dinner?”

You aren’t hungry in the slightest. But a chewing Lando means there won’t be a talking Lando and you will take your wins where you can get them.

He looks like he wants to continue this frankly riveting conversation but you pout. It works more times than it does not and right now is no exception. He kisses his teeth and mutters an agonized, “You’re unfair.”

You force yourself to eat dinner. Your nausea clogs your throat, making each bite a monumental task as you try and listen to Lando recount his day. The food is heavy in your stomach, a leaden weight that you are overly conscious about.

Lando slows down in his complaints about Carlos. He puts his fork to the side of his plate. You find it hard to hold his attention for long.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

Smiling tightly, you nod. Saliva pools in your mouth and you pray you’ll last the five minutes needed for Lando to finish eating. “Just been a long day.”

He doesn’t believe you but he’s always indulged you so he swiftly moves onto discussing the rest of his day. You nod at all the right places and ask him follow up questions. Lando becomes so engrossed in picking at your brain that his suspicions are temporarily set aside.

It doesn’t take long for him to finish eating and for you to make your escape, citing a much needed shower as your reason. You rinse off quickly and run through your night routine before Lando can sneak in. You examine yourself in the mirror with every conceivable angle and find your stomach looks as it always does. Your pregnancy is in its early stages but somehow, you are fearful Lando will know by simply looking at your bare stomach.

He joins you while you finish brushing your teeth. There’s a disgruntled wrinkle to his brows and if you were in the right headspace, you might ask him what’s wrong.

He leans his hip against the door frame as he watches you apply your moisturizer. The wrinkle deepens.

“You feeling okay?”

The nausea has finally settled but your nerves have not. A staticky energy buzzes underneath your skin. “Yeah.”

It has only been two hours since you found out and you don’t think you can keep this to yourself for any longer. God, you guys haven’t even discussed kids yet. Lando deserves a proper announcement but you can’t do that when you don’t know if he even wants kids this early.

But waiting will do you no favors.

“Lando,” you say. Your throat strains and you feel the pinpricks of tears beginning to fill your lash line. “I need to tell you something.”

He tips your chin up. Worry darkens his eyes when he scans your sickly face. Whatever he’s searching for he does not find given by the flex of his cheek muscle. A specific type of misery replaces his worry and it makes your stomach tangle into a knot to know you’ve put such an expression on your husband’s face. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t look like he’s keen on the answer but he smooths his hand over your jaw encouragingly. His shoulders straighten as if he wishes to brace himself.

“I’m pregnant.” The confession is clumsy on your too thick tongue.

For a moment, Lando doesn’t react. It’s as if the words have no meaning to him.

“You’re pregnant?” he breathes. Both his hands are placed against your cheeks, cupping your face gently. “You’ve taken a test?”

You nod, unable to speak. And then you hold up two fingers, hoping he understands.

“Both of them were positive?”

You nod again.

A bright grin spreads across his mouth. “I can’t believe it,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to your stomach.

“You’re not…upset?” you ask in a small voice.

He’s quick to snap his attention back to you. “Why would I be upset? Are you upset?”

You bite your lip. You haven’t given it much thought despite how you’ve spent the last hour on the brink of a panic attack. You want kids, that much has always been clear to you.

But you certainly hadn’t anticipated getting pregnant only weeks into your marriage to someone who is essentially a stranger. You like Lando, and in your private moments you can admit to yourself you will come to love him for who he is, but you don’t know Lando.

“No,” you say, testing how it makes you feel. It gives weight to the indecision warring within you so you try to remedy it by following up with, “It’s overwhelming.”

He strokes your cheekbone gently. “We’ll be okay. We’re probably better off than most.”

You cut him an irritated look. Your baby will be provided for but they will also be in danger for the unforeseeable future simply because of who their parents are.

It is something you’ve always known for your kids but you thought you would have more time to prepare for it.

He frowns. “Hey, you know I’d never let anything happen to you. Or our baby.”

“I know that. It’s just—“ You shrug helplessly. “It’s so soon, Lando. We barely know each other.”

He scoffs. “We know each other plenty. Our, uh, what did they call it?” He looks around as if the word will materialize in front of him.

“Courtship,” you offer, amused.

“Courtship! It was long. Longish,” he corrects sheepishly.

Considering how quickly both your families wish to secure this alliance, the period before your engagement was quite long. You’re reluctant to call it dating given that you and Lando knew exactly how it would end but it was a two month period you wouldn’t have been afforded if Lando hadn’t pushed for it.

He had been gracious with your hesitation, promising to go at your pace. For all of Lando’s lightheartedness, he had a maturity about him that surprised you. His patience endeared you to him and it didn’t take you long to stop pushing off the inevitable.

And now look at the two of you: married for six weeks with a baby on the way.

You think you are going to be sick and it has nothing to do with your pregnancy related nausea.

“How are you not freaking out?” You press your forehead against his shoulder.

Lando takes things on the chin. It’s something you admire and wish you could adopt into your own personality with equal finesse. Unfortunately, you are built to overthink and anticipate the worst case scenario.

“I don’t think it’s hit me yet,” he admits. “But when it does, I’ll still be just as happy. It’s me and you. We got this.”

Fear clings to you but it’s tempered by his confidence. “I’ll freak out for the both of us then.”

He laughs. The sound is pure sunshine amongst the doom and gloom you’ve held close to your chest the past few hours. “Don’t you always?”

You punch at his arm, if it can even be classified as that. He laughs again and lifts your head so he can kiss you. He’s smiling so much it’s hardly a kiss but it warms you all the same.

“Where are the pregnancy tests?” Lando asks when he pulls away.

“Behind the pads downstairs.”

His eyes widen. “That makes so much sense,” he says to himself. You look at him weirdly but he doesn’t notice. “Be right back.”

He’s out the door and down the stairs in a matter of seconds. You’d find it cute if he wasn’t literally going to go grab some sticks you peed on. But you also deprived him of finding out with you so you suppose it is cute.

You eye your box of birth control pills on the counter almost forlornly. You were supposed to start a new pack two days ago but with how severe your nausea has been, you didn’t bother taking them the last two days seeing as they would end up flushed down the toilet soon enough.

With a heavy sigh, you pick up the pack to throw it away. When your finger meets the frayed edge of the box, you pause.

You know you didn’t open this pack. You couldn’t have and yet, it pulls apart easily. Pushing the pack out of the box, your eyebrows creep to your hairline as you notice the first two days of pills are missing.

A hand disrupts your vision as Lando smoothly plucks the box out of your grasp and tosses it into the trash. You follow the box as it drops into the trash. The two punched out holes peek at you over the opened edge.

Unease knits itself across your heart. An unfamiliar tightness coils in your stomach, the sort that makes your blood curdle in your veins. Lando wouldn’t—he wouldn’t do this to you.

It would be much easier to convince yourself if a self-satisfied smile wasn’t currently curving Lando’s mouth.

“Guess we won’t be needing these anymore.”

this fic is finished. there won't be a part 2. thanks!

#Lando Norris #lando Norris x reader #Lando Norris x you #Lando Norris smut #formula 1 x you #Lando Norris imagine #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 smut #formula 1 imagine #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 smut #mafia!Lando Norris #dark fic #writing: lando Norris

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apothe-roses · 4 months

Text

Dance of the Sugarplum Prince

Nutcracker!Aemond x Clara!Reader

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: violence, character death, smut, tiddy sucking, oral (f-receiving), uncle-niece incest, unprotected sex, piv sex, breeding kink, possessive Aemond, obsessed Aemond

A/N: I may not be the first nor the last to do a nutcracker au, but I’m doin it anyways! Merry Christmas to those who celebrate!

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. All rights go to HBO and George RR Martin

The snow falls heavy and thick outside the window. You watch the snowflakes dance to the ground while your family makes a ruckus behind you. The adults Gossip amongst themselves while your brothers laugh and joke amongst themselves. You love your family, but you’ve grown tired of your overbearing aunties trying to set you up with “nice boys” they know.

You notice a figure making their way towards the front door, making your own way towards it to greet them. Right after the doorbell rings, you open the door, smiling at the woman on the other side.

“Aunt Alys,” you smile and embrace the older woman.

“Forgive me for my tardiness, but it’s nearly impossible to make one’s way through that,” she replies, indicating to the storm outside. Other family members come to greet Alys, so you move to the side and let them. She pulls a large case out from under her coat. She reveals several beautifully made dolls, winding them up and letting them dance across the carpet. Your family is in awe. While they’re distracted, Alys approaches you.

“I have a special gift for you,” Alys says. She opens her bag, gingerly pulling out a final doll. He was a beautiful man with long silver hair and black armor accentuated with gold.

“This,” you aunt explains, “is no ordinary knight. He is a prince of a faraway land.”

“Oh Alys, she’s too old for dolls!” your mother calls from across the room.

“Oh, but he’s so beautiful!” you rebut. “Couldn’t I just put on on my shelf and admire him?”

“You can put these dirty dishes in the kitchen,” your mother tells you. You sigh, setting your doll on the windowsill. Alys follows you into the kitchen.

“Perhaps you should’ve brought me a real prince. That would’ve made mother happy,” you laugh. Alys simply smiles at that.

Suddenly, a loud crash sounds from the sitting room, followed by your mother shouting “Luke!” You rush into the room. Your doll is lying on the floor at your brother’s feet.

“It was an accident!” Luke explains. “I only wanted to get a closer look!”

You rush over, picking your doll up off the ground. One of his eyes is broken. Luke apologizes profusely while you carefully extract the broken pieces. Alys approaches.

“I couldn’t find a spare eye, but this should fit,” she says, handing you a small sapphire. You slip it into his empty socket; it fits perfectly. She provides a small strip of black fabric that you use as a makeshift eyepatch.

“Thank you, Alys,” you say, giving the older woman a hug. You don’t notice the worried look she gives your doll.

BONG

Was it midnight already? You must have nodded off at some point. You look down at your prince, admiring his handsome face. Perhaps it’s the dim light, but it looks as though his mouth twitches.

You’re about to go to bed when something moves at the edge of your vision. A small man walks out from under your Christmas tree! For a moment, you think it’s your prince. However, this man has two eyes and looks older. He wears a crown that looks like it’s made of wood. He’s looking around, clearly searching for something. You stay as still as possible, hoping he doesn’t notice you. Theres a possibility you’re still dreaming, but you’re not willing to take that risk.

“Looking for someone, Daemon?” a voice calls out. Both your heads snap to the corner where it came from. Your mouth falls open. It’s your prince! But he’s alive! He approaches the man, sword drawn.

“Aemond,” Daemon greets. “It appears you’ve suffered a horrible accident. Shame. I was hoping for a fair fight.”

“And you’ll get one,” Aemond snaps. At that moment, more figures storm into view. You recognize them as your brothers’ toy soldiers.

“Alright. Two can play at that game,” Daemon raises a hand, and several mice scurry out from nowhere. You clap a hand over your mouth, trying not to scream. Daemon and Aemond draw their swords, circling one another. Daemon strikes first, but Aemond is quick to block. The mice and toys launch at each other. You’re enthralled. Though bloodless, the battle is intense.

Suddenly, Daemon strikes Aemond’s blind side. He’s sent flying to the floor, his sword clattering away. Daemon smiles viciously, standing over his nephew. He raises his sword to strike the killing blow and—

WHAM!

A giant slipper knocks him off his feet. Aemond glances at you, noting you are now missing a slipper. He grins, then springs into action. He draws a dagger, races to his uncle, and plunges the blade into his neck. Daemon never had time to regain his senses before he bleeds out, choking and clasping at his throat. The battle stops. The now leaderless mice scurry off, and the toy soldiers return to where your brothers left them originally. Aemond walks over to you. As he does, he grows until he’s the height of a normal man. You stare up at him, lips parted. He’s tall, and even more handsome as a man.

“You saved me,” he states, kneeling at your side.

“I-it was nothing,” you stammer, blushing. “I didn’t want him to…kill you.”

Aemond’s lips curl into a smirk. “Such a sweet thing you are,” he muses. He reaches out, winding a lock on your hair around his finger. “It’s not every day a man can say he was saved by someone so beautiful or kind.”

Your blush deepens. “You’re too kind,” you whisper.

“You must come back to the castle with me. My family will want to meet the girl who helped defeat my wicked uncle and his wretched mouse army,” he stands, extending a hand to you. You look around the empty sitting room, wondering what to do.

“It’s only for tonight. I promise to have you back by morning,” he assures you. You bite your lip, not noticing the way his gaze darkens. Then, you smile and take his hand. When you stand, you notice how much taller he is. you look down shyly, but he tucks a finger under your chin and tilts your face up to his. For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you. But then he says, “let’s be off then,” and leads you to the Christmas tree. With each step, you shrink until you can easily walk under the branches.

You spot a castle in the distance. A beautiful red fortress perched on the edge of a cliff, overlooking a sprawling city. The faint ringing of bells can be heard.

“It seems word of our victory has spread,” Aemond observes. “I imagine the celebration is well underway.

“Oh, but I’m not dressed!” you realize.

“Look down, little one,” Aemond replies. You do, and you gasp. Your simple nightgown had been replaced with a beautiful white dress, tied by a large red ribbon. The skirt floats in light layers down to your calves. Your feet are covered by red slippers with ribbons wrapped around your legs.

“How…?” you start to ask, the question dying on your lips when you look up and see Aemond had changed as well. He’s wearing a black and red jacket adorned with golden epaulettes, and also matching breeches and shiny black boots. His hair is loose, and the swath of ribbon covering his eye is replaced with a proper eyepatch.

“Come,” he requests, extending his hand. “We don’t want to miss out on the festivities.”

The walk to the castle is filled with merriment as the small folk throw flowers over your heads and dance and cheer. Inside the castle is even more merry as ball is in full swing. You spy the king and queen at the end of the hall, their matching silver hair catching the light.

Aemond leads you to the middle of the dance floor and leads you in a waltz. The night passes in a series of twirls and lifts, until a hush falls over the crowd.

The king leads his queen off the dais into the center of the crowd. Everyone pushes back, forming a wide berth around them as they lead a solitary waltz. You feel a large hand on the small of your back.

“Come with me,” Aemond whispers. His breath tickles your ear.

He leads you out of the room. The two of you race down the halls. You haven’t felt this exhilarated since you were a child chasing your brothers outdoors.

You’re lead into a bedroom that you presume is his. You don’t have time to take in the decor, as he grabs your face and kisses you hungrily. You kiss him back, hands tangling in his soft hair.

He deftly undoes the bow on your back. He tries to untie the laces, but he gets impatient and just tears your dress open. You gasp as your dress falls from your body.

Aemond scoops you up and lays you on the bed. He looks over you like a lion about to devour his kill.

“Have you ever been with a man before little one?”

“N-no,” you stutter, causing him to chuckle.

“Well,” he starts, “allow me to show you.”

He tears the rest of your underthings off, leaving you bare before him. Without breaking eye contact, he takes one of your nipples into his mouth. Your head rolls back as he sucks on the sensitive flesh, kneading your other side.

“So beautiful,” he gasps, switching to the other tit.

“So perfect.” He trails kisses down your torso. He fingers swipe through your folds. He brings them to his lips and sucks them clean; his eyes roll back and he groans.

“I knew you’d taste sweet,” he purrs. He lowers his head to your mound and drags his tongue through your folds. You gasp and instinctually shy away, but he pins you with this hands on your hips. You can only moan as he relentlessly devours your cunt.

“M-my prince…”

“Aemond. Call me Aemond,” he breathes, sending a shiver through you. You feel your peak approaching, closer and closer. It’s just about to wash over you when he pulls away. You whine at the loss of stimulation.

“The first time I make you come, it will be on my cock,” Aemond states, once again leaning over you. He sheds his clothing with ease. He’s truly one of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen. His cock is long and thick, and already leaking. He strokes himself as he gets into position.

“What if it doesn’t fit?” You ask innocently.

“It will fit.” He replies. “I’ll make it fit.”

He angles his cock and enters you with one sure thrust. You gasp loudly, clinging to his shoulders.

“Gods you’re tight,” he whispers. He begins to rock in and out of you, setting a steady pace.

“So wet, and I’ve barely touched you. Such a needy little thing. Absolutely begging to be fucked.”

You babble incoherently in response. Aemond chuckles and starts playing with your pearl.

“Already cockdumb are we?”

He pinches your pearl.

“I could keep you here you know. Fuck you—breed you— day and night, until your belly swells with my child. You’d like that wouldn’t you? My perfect little princess. My broodmare. Mine.”

You’re a little frightened by his declaration, but you’re to overwhelmed by pleasure to do anything about it. You can only lay there as you climax, the pleasure melting your bones and heating your blood.

“That’s my girl. That’s my good girl,” he groans, and you feel his cock pulse followed by a sense of warmth. He keeps his cock plugged inside until he starts to soften, then he pulls out. You feel a mixture of your fluid and his seed leak out. He hold your legs open, admiring the sight. Then, he lays down, pulling you into his arms.

“You’ll want for nothing. I’ll make sure of it,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your hair.

You lay against his chest, and it isn’t long before sleep claims you.

“Sweetheart, wake up!” you hear your mother call. You reluctantly open your eyes. You’re in your own bed, in your own room.

“I don’t mean to rush you, but we have some surprise guests waiting downstairs,” she pulls open the curtains, and you wince at the sudden brightness.

“Get dressed quickly! I need to get back downstairs!” she rushes out of your room, closing the door behind you.

At first, you don’t move. There was a heaviness in your chest. It had all been a dream. Of course it had been a dream. Mice soldiers, living dolls, and princes could only be the product of dreams. This is the real world, and there are guests waiting for you.

As you get dressed, you realize your prince doll is nowhere to be found. You must have left him downstairs.

Voices could be heard in the sitting room as you make your way downstairs. Unfamiliar voices. You round the corner and freeze. Sitting around the room are three very familiar faces.

“Darling, these are my half-siblings.” She leads you to the Sugarplum King. “This is Aegon,” then to the Queen, who smiles sweetly at you, “Helaena,” then finally to the most familiar of them all, “and this is Aemond.”

He takes your hand in his, planting a kiss on your knuckles. You stare up at him with wide eyes. He’s wearing an eyepatch. Over the same eye your brother broke. Was he hiding a sapphire under there?

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you breathe.

“Please, the pleasure is all mine, niece,” he purrs, looking at you in a way an uncle should never look at a niece.

“What happened to your eye?” Luke asked abruptly. Jace whacks him on the shoulder, admonishing him.

“Ow!”

“It’s alright. It was an accident long ago,” Aemond replies.

“Oh, let’s not dwell on unhappy memories,” your mother says, turning to Helaena. “How is Alicent? It’s been too long since I’ve heard from her.”

The conversation carries on, but you’ve stopped paying attention. You’re not looking at him, but you feel his gaze on you. Just as intense as it had been when he made love to you in your dream.

A dream.

It had only been a dream.

Right?

#aemond targaryen #ewan mitchell #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen smut #house of the dragon aemond #aemond fanfiction #aemond smut

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ioveartfilm · 1 month

Text

BEYOND THE GRAVE

Summary When he first dreamed about you, Satoru knew deep down you must be wandering somewhere in the world out of his reach. However, he never thought you were lying six feet underground.

Genre Romance, Drama, Historical, Thriller.

Additional Content Mature Content, Dark Themes, Murder, One Shot, Victorian Era.

Pairing Gojo Satoru x Fem! Reader

Playlist ┊ Masterlist

Author’s Note Here’s the corpse bride AU fic I promised, enjoy!!

Satoru’s hand moved effortlessly while sketching the figure of a woman that rested in his mind. Capturing every detail of hers. Being a presence he had portrayed on countless occasions. Her features linger vividly in his memories, using her as a subject to relieve his turmoils. As his gaze remains, his lingering desires do too. A yearning for her to come to life. How does a woman attain such resplendent beauty and by what mystic grace did her presence weave its way into his thoughts? His wish for her to enlighten him about her purposes, passions, and dreams persisted. Eager to learn how she landed into his deepest dreams. Why his? His nonchalant mind of his, with no creativity whatsoever.

All his drawings are composed of her presence along with the illustrations of Morpho menelaus, species of the subfamily Morphinae. A striking butterfly species with a resplendent blue that brightens through the night with its vibrant colors. The beautiful butterflies that grace his window daily, he’s lucky to witness. Satoru was the age of eighteen when he first encountered her in his dreams. He remembers the moment vividly. For an inexplicable reason, she was dressed in bridal attire, highlighting her gorgeous collarbone while gracefully embracing her form, complemented by dainty ivory gloves. A bride. Perhaps someone else’s bride. He can’t tell why that thought pains him.

“This boy, engaging in artistic endeavors like a fool.” His mother entered his chamber with an air suffused with disapprobation. “Desist from your current occupation and prepare yourself. We cannot afford to be tardy!”

Oh, that's right. He's going to finally meet his fiance today.

“Ah, my beautiful and only son. Possessing a visage of such resplendence yet lingering in an unmarried state. What an anguish! It is our poverty that people look down on us. But again, If your father haven’t went bankrupt, we wouldn’t be in this situation! Now I’m stuck with a son that wastes his days, selling books, sketching nonsense and recite poems to no one.” Throughout the entirety of their carriage ride to their destination, his mother lamented their circumstances. Regrettably, his family lacks the riches to sustain themselves after his father’s death. However, his forthcoming matrimonial alliance holds the promise of a brighter future. “Now we find ourselves lucky! The Winchester Family finally grant us a chance!”

“Mother,” Satoru called with a furrow forming on his brow. "Shouldn't Miss Winchester be marrying a Lord instead of a common man like me?" He expressed his concerns, his words tinged with uncertainty. “Don't you find it a little odd?” Is he the only who find it suspicious about The Winchester family sudden interest in them?

His mother scowled, using her fan to deliver a smack to her son’s head. “Quiet boy! Don’t pry, and be grateful for what you have.” Satoru exhaled deeply at his mother’s words, sinking back into his seat as a whirlwind of thoughts spun through his mind, there’s no use talking to his mother about this matter. He may as well let it be.

“Adelaide, I implore you to ensure our son enters into wedlock for love, not merely for monetary gain. Guide him onto the right path.”

“Oh, Octavius don’t be ridiculous! Our son’s survival is paramount. Love alone cannot sustain him; it is a whimsical fantasy.”

Satoru recalled the moment he overheard his father’s dying wish for him. Octavius had fervently wished for his son to pursue love in marriage, unencumbered by material considerations. However, Henrietta held a contrary belief. Satoru lacks personal experience with romantic affection, so he cannot voice an opinion on that matter. Opting for a marriage driven by financial considerations is the most pragmatic choice for him at present. His artistic talents and poetic inclinations offered little sustenance for his practical needs. Resigning himself he now embraces the predetermined path laid out before him.

“Pay heed,” His mother's voice resounded with a sense of urgency, her eyes drilling into Satoru with a steely resolve. “Do your utmost to appease them. Whatever you do, do not falter! This is our last opportunity to escape the perpetual hardship we face daily. We cannot afford to let this chance slip through our grasp, do you comprehend?”

“Mother you expect too much from me. I haven't even spoken to Miss Winchester before, how will I know how to please her?”

“Ah, nonsense! Women aren't as complicated as you make them out to be. Just prioritize making a favorable impression on Mr. and Mrs. Winchester.”

Mr. and Mrs. Winchester proved to be not only reserved but rather, intimidating. Satoru stood still in the middle of the room with their discerning gazes lingering on him, scrutinizing every aspect of his presence, leaving him with a growing sense of discomfort. Mrs. Winchester emitted a satisfied hum as she began to circle his form treating him like an exhibit with her head held high.

“You possess striking height and distinctive features: white hair and blue eyes. Yes, these are splendid attributes for our future grandchildren,” Mrs. Winchester commented in a stern tone. “Yet, physical appearance alone is not what we seek. We seek discipline and determination above all else, a husband who is committed to providing for his family. Do you believe you possess such traits, Mr. Gojo?”

Satoru stood proudly, suppressing any doubts that lingered within him, meeting Mrs. Winchester’s gaze with composure. “Yes, ma’am. I assure you that I possess the qualities you seek. I am committed to meeting your expectations.”

The room descended into a profound silence as their eyes locked, seemingly exchanging unspoken words. Mrs. Winchester arched an eyebrow before nodding in approval. “Good. That’s precisely the response I was hoping for. Come along, let us delve deeper into our discussion over a cup of tea.”

As Mrs. Winchester led the way deeper into their sprawling mansion, Satoru’s attention was ensnared by the sight of a magnificent piano, standing behind until the voices of his mother, Mr. and Mrs. Winchester gradually faded away. His eyes were drawn to the instrument, finding himself seated on the bench, his gaze fixated on the keys as memories flooded his mind. He recalled the days of his youth, witnessing his father play with awe and admiration. While Satoru could play the piano, he knew he could never quite replicate his father’s talent. As he sat there before the instrument, memories of his father’s music enveloped him, stirring both nostalgia and longing in his heart. Oh, how he missed the irreplaceable bond they shared through the language of music. One evening, Octavius found young Satoru ensconced in the solitude of the gardens with tears cascading down his cheeks, as he grappled with the weight of his mother’s perceived disappointment in him. Unable to further witness his son’s anguish, Octavius led him to his musical sanctuary where he sat at the grand piano. He began to play with ease a melody he composed with each note a testament to the depth of his love for his son.

“You are kind, strong, and brave.” Octavius spoke with words of reassurance and wisdom. “Allow yourself to feel and express your emotions freely. It does not diminish your worth as a man.”

For years, Satoru devoted himself to the pursuit of replicating the melody his father once played. His fingers dancing upon the keys of the piano with practiced ease. As he closed his eyes, he surrendered himself to the echoes of the past in a bittersweet embrace.

“Mr. Gojo?” The sudden intrusion of feminine voice brought Satoru’s performance to an abrupt halt, his fingers freezing upon the keys as he turned to behold the unexpected visitor. Before him, a radiant apparition graced his sight—a maiden in the prime of her twenties, adorned with cascades of chestnut tresses and eyes of a rich, earthly hue. Her figure was adorned in a breathtaking violet gown along with a delicate necklace gracing her necklace adding a touch of refinement. Satoru then began to distancing himself from the instrument, standing before her. Is she really the woman he must marry? She’s absolutely gorgeous.

“Forgive me.” He speaks flickering his gaze between the woman in front of him and the piano, feeling slightly unease under her curious gaze. “I’ve used your piano without proper permission.”

She emitted a soft chuckle and shook her head with a serene smile. “That’s quite alright. Hardly anyone ever uses it anyway.”

“Really? Such beauty should be cherished and appreciated, not left idle.”

“I agree. Lamentably, my mother holds the belief that a lady like myself should not indulge in musical pursuits.”

"How so?" Satoru couldn't help but inquire.

"My mother believes playing the piano isn't suitable for a lady," Catherine explained with a hint of resignation, "and insists that I redirect my focus towards more socially acceptable pursuits."

"That's a shame," Satoru stated sympathetically.

"It truly is."

Now as both moved to be seated by side together at the piano bench, she cast a wistful smile in Satoru’s direction before speaking with a longing voice. “I’ve always imagined my wedding would be with someone I truly love.” She confessed. “Perhaps it’s an unrealistic wish, don’t you think? Nobody marry for love nowadays.”

“Yes, it is.” Satoru agrees immediately unaware he may have been a little blunt. “I mean! No, of course not. If it’s a dream you hold dearly, do not let go of it so easily.” Even though his hopes of marrying for love have dimmed, it doesn’t mean her hopes have to be.

She hums to herself with her gaze lowered. “I’ve matured and I have learned down the way I shouldn’t be swayed by a little girl’s dreams.” She then lifts up her eyes to meet Satoru’s. “However, that doesn’t mean we should treat each other as strangers. We will soon be husband and wife, the least we can do is treat each with familiarity.”

Satoru let out a relieved sigh upon hearing her words, feeling like he could breathe again. Yes, that’s something he needed to heard. “I will be pleased to do that, I’m not quite fond of formalities. Please reference me as Satoru from now on.”

“Satoru.” She pronounced his name like it was the sweetest flavor her tongue had encountered. “Call me, Catherine.”

“Catherine,” Satoru said with a warm smile, “perhaps after we are wed, I could impart upon you the art of playing the piano.”

“You will?” Catherine inquired, her eyes brightening with anticipation. “Will you teach me the previously melody you were playing?”

“Absolutely,” Satoru responded with a firm conviction agreeing immediately at her request, his demeanor exuding confidence as he reached out to intertwine his fingers with Catherine's, while their eyes locked into each other. Meanwhile, Catherine can’t hold that long her gaze feeling flustered under his clear eyes.

“What impropriety is this?” Mrs. Winchester's voice shattered the moment they shared, causing Satoru and Catherine to hastily pull away from each other. “You two cannot be seen alone before the wedding! I trust you are aware of that, Mr. Gojo.” Mrs. Winchester asserted, her tone carrying a hint of admonition as she reminded them of the proprieties expected before their impending nuptials.

Satoru rose from the bench, executing a polite bow as a gesture of contrition. “My apologies, Mrs. Winchester. It was imprudent of me.”

“I have taken a liking to you, Mr. Gojo. It would be disheartening to be disappointed so soon. Now, there's a few minutes before rehearsal. The priest will arrive soon, so come along, and let’s not waste any more time!”

It's only a few vows, Satoru thought to himself. He had recited numerous poems before; surely, this wouldn't be too challenging. Oh, but it was. Satoru realized with a sinking feeling in his chest. Despite his earlier confidence, the weight of the momentous occasion bore down on him, making the simple act of reciting vows feel daunting.

“Rehearsal in ruins as Mr. Gojo causes chaos!Wedding rumored to be delayed.” Bloody hell—

Satoru's frustration escaped in an audible groan, as the news of the disastrous rehearsal spread throughout the town, amplifying his embarrassment. Can his day get any worse? Now everyone knows what happened at the rehearsal pointing him like a fool. Wait.

Catherine. Oh, Catherine.

She may not want to hear from him after this. He could potentially be labeled as the worst groom in history. Perhaps he wasn't cut out for marriage after all. They were only simple vows—what had gotten into him today? It was completely out of his character! The words may have seemed clear in his thoughts, but as he spoke them aloud, they twisted and faltered, a stark contrast to the eloquence he had imagined.

“With this hand, I shall partake of your elixir.” No, that's not it. Think again.

How about, “With this hand, I shall elevate your candle.” Goodness, no that's not the correct sentence! Think again!

“Come now, Satoru,” he thought, "take a deep breath and orchestrate those vows into their rightful sequence. Do not be disheartened by mere vows. You wish to marry Catherine, do you not?” He does. He may not be initially in love with Catherine taking the fact he barely knows her. Though, that doesn’t mean he can’t learn how to. If you ask him, he’s a fast learner.

“With this hand, I shall lift the burden of your sorrows,” Satoru recited, his voice steady as he embraced the weight of his commitment. He raised his ring, pledging to alleviate Catherine's burdens and share in her joys. He strides further into the depths of the dim forest he had fled, his voice a steady cadence amid the eerie silence as he continues to recite his vows with unwavering determination.

“Your cup shall never run dry, for I shall be your wine. With this candle, I shall illuminate your passage through the abyss. And with this ring, I beseech you to be mine.” With his vows flowing smoothly from his lips, Satoru breathed a sigh of relief, a satisfied smile adorning his face. Proud of his accomplishment in regaining his confidence, he stood poised and ready to embark on his homeward journey.

“Catherine,” he ruminated, a fervent resolve kindling within him, “I stand ready to entreat you to become mine.” Catherine after all, deserves the best. He pledges to himself he will be the best version of himself so he can make Catherine happy. That’s the least he can do as her future husband. If the wedding is still up, of course. What’s he gonna say once goes back? “I’m sorry I ruined away in the middle of rehearsal like an idiot?” Oh, no. What’s Mr. and Mrs. Winchester gonna think of him now? Everything felt so suffocating! But, can you really blame him? It’s almost like the universe was conspiring against him today.

The sudden cessation of the breeze arrested Satoru's steps, preventing him from moving further. However, that was not the only oddity that caught Satoru's attention. The wind picked up, its mournful wail creating a chilling symphony in the air. Simultaneously, the ground beneath him trembled. A sense of uneasiness crept into Satoru's heart. Feeling a shiver run down his spine, sensing the increasing tension in the forest. He made the choice to turn back before it was too late.

“I do.”

The sudden dulcet tones of a feminine voice brought Satoru to an abrupt halt. In that suspended interval, the passage of time seemed to yield to the captivating allure of the unknown speaker, prompting Satoru to turn with cautious deliberation, his senses keenly attuned to the mysterious presence that had disrupted the tranquil solitude of the forest. His gaze widened in astonishment at the vision of a woman adorned in bridal regalia, her face obscured by a flowing veil. Yet, upon closer inspection, he noted the disarray of her attire, with torn fabric and absent embellishments. What calamity had befallen this woman? Despite her initial distance, a sense of trepidation gripped Satoru as she drew nearer, prompting an instinctive step backward.

“Who are you? Do not approach further!” However, the woman paid no heed to his warning and continued to advance. Feeling a surge of panic, Satoru turned on his heels and bolted out of the forest, his heart pounding in his chest as he raced to escape whatever ominous presence lurked behind him. Was it his imagination? Was he really going paranoid? He must be! He sprinted tirelessly until his feet throbbed returning to the bridge he originally was before delving into the forest. After his run, he paused to catch his breath, his hand resting on his chest as he briefly looked back at the cityscape before him. What was that all about? Perhaps his mind is playing tricks on him due to the stress he’s enduring. Yes, that’s it. There’s no other explanation. When he turned to peer back at the forest, his heart nearly leaped out of his chest when his eyes met the sight of the previous woman standing perilously close eliciting a startled reaction that drove him to instinctively press his back against the stone walls of the bridge in a state of bewilderment. However, as soon as her fingers started to reveal her face, time itself stopped for him.

Satoru could only manage to stammer, "You—" No it cannot be. “This…this isn’t possible!” He muttered incredulously at the sight before him. Before him stood the woman he had been sketching since he turned eighteen. As she was close, he could now have a better approach to her appearance. Noticing how the bridal attire was even torn apart, patches of her skin missing on her arms and ankles, revealed exposed bones. Resembling…someone who may be dead. How is this possible? How can a dead person be walking among the living!

“I know you.” Despite her ghastly appearance, he was certain of her identity. He knew her face. How can he not? She has been all he ever draws. What happened to her? He always thought that the woman in his dreams was wandering on the world out of his reach, however, he never thought his ideal woman was lying six feet underground beneath him. A Corpse!

“Yes, it’s me!” She spoke as if she knew him, but how could that be? They never had actually met before at least not in real life—she existed only within the realm of his dreams.

“I have dreamed this day to come. At last, you've found the courage to seek my hand in marriage.” She whispered with a yearning evident in her tone, her words echoing in his troubled mind. She then approached him and cornered him with no room to evacuate. She raised her bony hands clad in tattered gloves which had lost their pure white, as she tenderly placed them upon his cold face. Everything felt surreal to him, as though he were ensnared in a waking dream. She was the last image etched into his consciousness before slipping into oblivion.

“Mother, do you have any news of Satoru?” Catherine inquired, her voice trembling with worry as she spoke with her mother. It's late, she’s afraid Satoru may not come back after he left the rehearsal without looking back. Where could he be? Leaving Catherine filled with concern for his well-being. Perhaps, he had second thoughts?

His mother huffed in response, turning to sink into the furniture facing the fireplace. “No, nothing at all.” She replied. “I should have known that boy would only bring disappointment.”

“I couldn’t agree more. It’s utterly baffling that he doesn’t even know his wedding vows. What kind of man is he?” His father agreed, echoing her mother’s sentiments. “But given the inheritance from Octavius Gojo, he’s the best option available for us. We’ll simply have to endure his foolishness until tomorrow morning. If he bothers to return.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Catherine interjected puzzled. “what inheritance are you referring to?”

Her father shook his head irritated, avoiding his daughter's confused gaze. “Why do you think we arranged your marriage to that fool? Octavius Gojo before his passing, rumors were circulating about him selling his prosperous business and leaving the proceeds to his family.”

Before Catherine can respond to his father, the conversation comes to an abrupt halt as Mrs. Gojo enters the living room, her carriage having returned from a frantic search for her son throughout the city. “I’m deeply embarrassed by my son’s inappropriate behavior. Please accept my sincere apologies on his behalf. Unfortunately, I was unable to find him.”

Mrs. Winchester hummed, motioning for Mrs. Gojo to join them. As they settled in, a tense atmosphere waiting enveloped them all, as they awaited any sign of Satoru’s whereabouts. Suddenly, a servant entered the room to deliver his message to his masters.

“Pardon the interruption, but a guest has arrived.” Mrs. Winchester exhaled deeply upon hearing the following words, expecting news of Mr. Gojo. She can only sigh and nod. “By all means, show them in.” She instructed her servant to lead the guest into the room. As soon the unexpected guest made its entrance, Mrs. Winchester’s eyes brightened immediately with recognition as she beheld the guest.

“Ah, Mr. Zenin. What a delightful surprise.” She says with genuine pleasure. “What brings you to our home?”

He nodded, a smile playing on his lips as he addressed them all with a warm greeting. “I’ve come to visit and check on how things are for the Winchester Family, especially after the news spread about your daughter’s groom fleeing. Which was a surprise to me. Never heard of a fleeing groom before, not during rehearsal at least.”

Mrs. Winchester gestured to a servant to bring a cup of tea as Mr. Zenin joined them. “Yes, it was quite unexpected. I’m grateful for your concerns.”

As they speak over a cup of tea, Mrs. Winchester’s gaze fits towards Mrs. Gojo, observing her attempt to discern Mr. Zenin’s identity. “My apologies.” She interjected. “Allow me to make proper introductions. Mr. Zenin, may I present Mrs. Adelaide Gojo, the estimated mother of the groom. And Mrs. Gojo, it is my pleasure to introduce Mr. Naoya Zenin, a confidant of our family. His father used to be a business associate of my husband before his departure abroad.”

Mr. Zenin nodded from his seat, offering a congenial smile. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Gojo.”

However, Mrs. Gojo remained composed, her expression unwavering. “Likewise.”

“Please excuse my inquisitiveness, but your surname strikes me as oddly familiar.”

“Is that so?” Adelaide replied. “It was my late husband’s name.”

“Ah, please accept my heartfelt condolences.” He responded with sympathy. I never meant to pry.”

“It’s quite alright,” Adelaide said, brushing off his concerns with a wave of her hand.

“I’ve had the misfortune of experiencing grief firsthand as yourself,” Mr. Zenin confessed, sorrow lacing in his words. “Not long ago, I had a fiancée whom I deeply cherished before she was tragically murdered.”

“Oh, my! That’s terrible.” She expresses with a sudden change in her demeanor.

“Yes, it was a devastating ordeal.” Mr. Zenin replied with a heavy heart. “However, learning to move on is a necessary part of life.”

After a few minutes of quiet contemplation, punctuated only by the crackling of the fireplace, Mr. Zenin cleared his throat and began to speak again sitting up straighter. “Catherine, my dear. I neglected to inquire about your well-being. You must be experiencing a great deal of stress not knowing the whereabouts of your fiancé.”

Standing still where she was, Catherine lowered her gaze nodding in acknowledgment. “Yes, I can’t deny that I’m worried.” She admitted softly.

Mr. Zenin nodded gravely at Catherine’s words before speaking earnestly as he glanced back at them at once. “I’m not one to indulge in gossip, but before I came here, I overheard words of a gentleman seen near the woods, accompanied by another woman. I must tell you this before you hear it from someone else. Perhaps I am wrong, let me ask does the groom possess white hair, towering height, and striking blue eyes?”

“That’s my son! Wait, that doesn’t make any sense. My son doesn’t know other women. How can that be possible?”

“What!” Mrs. Winchester exclaimed with indignation in her voice, rising abruptly from her seat. “In the arms of another woman?”

“Satoru? No, it cannot be him.” Catherine muttered distressed.

“Mr. Zenin, are you certain about this?” Mrs. Winchester questioned anxiously. “We cannot allow this information to spread any further. The potential humiliation it could bring upon us is unthinkable!”

Standing up from his seat, Mr. Zenin nodded resolutely, certain of what he had heard. “I trust in the accuracy of what I’ve heard. Pardon me for burdening you with such troubling news,” He conveyed with sincerity. He made his way towards the door, glancing back at their uneasy faces. “I believe it’s time for me to take my leave. However, please remember, that I’m always available to lend a helping hand if needed. My assistance is unconditional.” He reassured them before closing the door behind him.

As Mr. Zenin bid his farewell, Mrs. Winchester’s hand swept through her hair in a gesture of exasperation, her mind grappling with the weight of the situation. “What steps should we now undertake?” She queried her husband, momentarily disregarding Mrs. Gojo's continued presence in the room.

Mr. Winchester’s fingertips grazed his beard as he pondered the situation. “I believe we must call the wedding off.”

“Such preposterous allegations!” Mrs. Gojo exclaimed, her demeanor now imbued with a regal air of indignation. “Surely, Mr. Zenin has been misinformed. You’re aware of how dangerous gossip can be. My son is of impeccable character; he could never stoop to such levels of promiscuity. I beseech you, to grant me a chance at least until tomorrow, so I can unravel this egregious misunderstanding. I’m certain by that time, I will be able to find my son.”

“Very, well. You have until dawn.”

With eyes alight with admiration, you behold his features closely, relishing the sight of his. Unable to resist any longer, your fingertips rested on his skin exploring the contours of his face. A smile adorning your smiles as you bask in the tranquility of the moment. Finally, he's in your arms after so long.

“What do we have here? A mere trinket for idle amusement?” A derisive voice interjects, disrupting your thoughts and your tender exploration.

With a heavy sigh, you stand to face your skeletal friend. “He is not an object for amusement. I would appreciate it if you refrain from treating him such.” He chuckles in response as he joins you by your side, and together, you cast a glance at the sleeping form of the man resting upon the furniture made of bones.

“Right. Pardon me for insulting your boyfriend over here.”

“He is not my boyfriend; he’s my husband.” You assert, shooting your friend a sharp glare. “Well, my future husband. He asked for my hand in marriage. Where are the others? I want to announce the news of our engagement as soon as possible.”

“What’s the rush, dear? Your fiancé seemed to be passed out. And by the looks of it, he may not be waking up soon.”

You scoffed in annoyance, your frustration evident in the curl of your lip. “Don’t you have anything else to do? Instead of being annoying around me.”

“Love, I’m merely just looking out for you. What business do you have with a living person?”

“I already informed you. He asked for my hand—”

“Yes. But do you truly believe he means it?”

"I'm not sure what you're implying." You replied skeptical.

Your skeletal friend shakes his skull, the hollow cavities where his eyes once were fixed on you. “I only want you to understand the magnitude of your actions. He may not mean those words, not to you at least.” He advises you with a solemn tone.

“That’s nonsense.” You retort. “I was the only one in the forest when he took vows, naturally those words were directed at me.”

“For two years,” you expound, delving into the intricacies of your relationship and the reasons behind your actions, “Satoru has been my steadfast companion. Since my departure, he has frequented these woods, pouring forth his dreams and aspirations. I've tried to connect with him through his dreams, and I'm certain he feels the same way. Now, here's the ring as a testament to our bond.” You announce, lifting your bony hand to showcase the shiny band nestled upon your finger.

“(Y/N)—”

The room fell into a reverent stillness, pierced only by the plaintive groan from the unconscious man who was now struggling to regain consciousness. You rush to his side, lowering yourself to kneel beside his prone form. “Darling, are you awake?” You observe intently as his eyes flutter, revealing his clear eyes clouded with an unfocused vision.

“It’s okay, just stay still. I’m here.”

As his vision clears and meets your gaze, you witness the shift in his countenance, from one of composure to one consumed by dread. In a rash impulse, he jolts upright, drawing in sharp breaths. His eyes are wild with fear as he scans his surroundings. When you try to reach out to comfort him, he recoils abruptly.

“Where in the world am I?” He exclaimed alarmed.

Before you can utter a word, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupts, accompanied by the rhythmic chants signaling the arrival of a new visitor.

“A new arrival!”

“Fascinating, his skin looks freshly new!”

“He doesn’t look dead at all.”

“Oh! can I feel his skin?”

In a state of utter disbelief, Satoru beheld the eerie scene unfolding before him. The deceased, mingling and conversing as though they were living beings, circling around him like an object for amusement. Has he finally gone insane?

“(Y/N), darling. Who’s this one with you? Why don’t you present him to us?”

You nod, rising to your feet, proudly displaying your ring adoring your finger to the gathered crowd. “Everyone, I am honored to introduce you all to my fiancé and soon-to-be husband, Satoru.”

What! Satoru thought alarmed as he went to your side, taking your hand in his to inspect the ring with his own eyes. To his astonishment, there it was—the ring he was supposed to give to Catherine. What has he done!

“What a lovely couple, I wish for both of you endless happiness!” From admits the crowd, someone with their skeletal hands clapped.

“Thank you, Lady Brown.” You acknowledged with a smile, withdrawing your hand from Satoru’s grasp, leaving him staring at empty air. “You all should have seen him reciting his vows. It was the epitome of romance! It took my breathe away! Well, if I had any.” You chuckled.

“With this hand, I shall lift the burden of your sorrows.” With a dreamy smile playing on your lips, you remark Satoru’s vows, each word spoken with heartfelt emotion. “Your cup shall never run dry, for I shall be your wine. With this candle, I shall illuminate your passage through the abyss. And with this ring, I beseech you to be mine.” With eyes brimming with love, you regard the ring before you, your well, where your heart once swelled with unbridled joy, infusing every fiber of your being with an overwhelming sense of contentment. “Aren’t I the luckiest bride?”

“Wait!” Satoru’s voice interjected, cutting through the air like a blade. “Surely, this must be a misunderstanding,” he proclaimed. “Where am I? Is this the afterlife? What’s going on here?” Finally, his eyes met yours, and a flicker of uncertainty danced in his gaze as he inquired. “Who are you?”

You emit a soft laugh, as you approach him to close the distance between you two. Sensing his cautious retreat, you reassure him. “Love, it’s me. I understand that my appearance may not be what you expected, though I’m the same woman as I was in your dreams for two years.”

"But, in the realm of my dreams," he began, his gaze lingering on your figure, still maintaining his distance from everyone. "you appeared alive. What…What happened to you?”

You offered a rueful smile. “Well, it’s kind of a long story.”

She was a beacon of vitality, an intelligent young woman hailing from a respected and affluent family. Endowed with a myriad of talents, she possessed the ability to effortlessly weave melodies from various instruments and to navigate the intricacies of literature with finesse. Despite the throng of suitors vying for her favor, her heart gravitated towards a man of modest means, yet her parents weren't in favor of their scandalous relationship. Undeterred by their disapproval and driven by an insatiable thirst for freedom, she conspired with her beloved to elope, to meet beneath the cloak of night in the depths of the forest. Carrying her mother's nuptial attire, family heirlooms, and a trove of gold. Beneath the sprawling branches of the ancient oak tree, she awaited her lover's arrival, her spirit buoyed by the promise of freedom. Yet, fate dealt a cruel blow, veiling her world in darkness as a cold blade pierced her chest, Her precious jewels vanished, and so did the very essence of her being—her heart. Resigned to an eternity of solitude beneath the tree where her life was brutally stolen, she languished in desolation, believing love to be a distant memory. Yet, against all odds, her world turned for the better with the arrival of a gentleman with a white locks like the snow and eyes as clear as the blue sky. In his presence, she found comfort and companionship, her days enlivened by his constant presence. Now, he stands here after he professes an unwavering devotion, her once-forgotten heart fluttering with newfound hope.

Everything became overwhelming to grasp as their words echoed relentlessly within his mind. Proposing to a dead bride was a scenario he never could have fathomed. With a surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins, he seized the fleeting chance to escape this strange world of the deceased in hopes of finding his way back to the land of the living.

Or that's what he hoped for. Somehow you managed to find him easily. Now he sat there on a weathered old bench while the deceased bride droned on about the beautiful view before them. From your spot beside Satoru, you stole a glance back at him and noticed his vacant stare. Clearing your throat, you offered an apology, “I'm sorry if I've been going on too much. I tend to do that when I am overexcited.”

Satoru snapped out of his thoughts at the sound of your melodic laughter. He sat there, observing your features, marveling at how, even in death, you still exuded a radiant beauty, the same beauty from the dreams he had of you.

“I want you to know how deeply sorry I am for what happened to you. However, I really need to head home now.”

“What do you mean? This your home now!”

Satoru sighed heavily, closing his eyes briefly before he met your gaze. “I don’t even know your name.”

You tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear before responding with a smile. “It’s, (Y/N).”

(Y/N).

“Now. I believe I’ve been talking too much. I will like to get to know my soon-to-be husband better!”

Satoru couldn’t help but let out a chuckle at your enthusiasm, avoiding your gaze as he glanced down at his joined hands. “Well, there isn’t much about me. You know some of it—how I used to retreat into the woodland to sketch, seeking solace in the verdant embrace of the forest.” He paused mid—sentence, stealing a fleeting glance at you before once more evading your eyes. “I never thought you were there all along.”

“What about your family?” You asked, curiosity piqued.

Ah, his family. Before he realized he started talking with ease. “I used to live with my mother and father, being the only child. But when I was seventeen, my father passed away,” he says, his voice carrying a weight of melancholy. “Don’t get me wrong, I hold a deep appreciation for my mother. But, the connection I had with my father was unmatched. While my mother often had expectations of me, my father always urged me to heed my own intuition, to follow the path that felt right to me.”

As he trailed off, your heart went out to him with sympathy. You lifted a hand as if to offer comfort, but quickly retracted it, mindful not to impose any pressure on him. “He sounded like a good man.” You whispered.

“He was indeed, one of a kind.”

Both of you sat in silence until a sudden idea struck you. You turned to meet his gaze directly and suggested. “I just had an idea! Tell me his name. Perhaps we can track him down together!”

Ah, yes. He had momentarily forgotten for a moment he was now in the realm of the departed, and his father was dead.

“Octavius Gojo.” He replied.

Your eyes widened in recognition upon hearing the mention of the familiar name. “Octavius Gojo, is your father?”

“Yes? What’s wrong?”

You gasped with exhilaration, clasping his hands in yours. “Of course. How could I not have realized sooner? You both are so alike! I had the pleasure of knowing Octavius when I was alive. He was truly the finest man I ever knew.”

“How…how did you come to know my father?”

With a wide smile, you released his hand to settle down your hands on your lap. “As you were told, I was born into a wealthy family with high expectations placed upon me. When I was thirteen, my parents sought the finest piano tutor for me, and fate led me to Octavius. From the outset, our bond transcended the typical teacher—student relationship. Octavius became a friend of mine, sharing countless stories with me. One day, he told me he had a son who shared a passion for music like myself, expressing a desire for us to meet. Unfortunately, we never got to do that as circumstances forced us to part ways. As I reached a marriageable age, Octavius faced daily challenges within his company. I was devastated to learn of his passing through the grapevine, never having the chance to bid him farewell. However, I died one year later after his passing so our paths aligned again. Now, I find myself engaged to his son!”

Satoru was rendered speechless upon learning this new revelation, his thoughts swirling with a mixture of emotions. Who would have thought, he was supposed to meet you ages ago? Thinking if he did, perhaps you would still be alive instead of falling into the wrong hands who led you to your demise. However, there’s time to think about the past and his accidental engagement with you later. Right now, he must see his father. Driven by a sudden wave of determination, Satoru firmly grasped your hand and rose from the bench. “Lead me to my father.”

“What’s our plan?” Mrs. Winchester as she paced the living room while conversing with her husband. “That boy still hasn’t returned. We can’t cancel the wedding; are you aware of the financial repercussions? We’ll be left penniless, thrown on the streets without that inheritance! And don’t get me started with Mrs. Gojo. She hasn’t even bothered to come back.”

As her husband remained silent, Mrs. Winchester’s frustration boiled over. “Say something!”

“Don’t pressure me, woman!” Her husband interjected firmly from his seat, his eyelid twitching slightly with suppressed agitation. “We will figure something out.”

“We don’t have time to figure something out! Where will we find another groom for our daughter in such short time?”

“It is lamentable for that young man to disregard dear Catherine in such a manner; it is an act that cannot be forgiven.” Mr. Zenin's refined voice interjected into their dialogue taking them out of surprise. “Please forgive my intrusion; one of your servants granted me entry. I couldn't help but overhear the woeful plight of poor Catherine, who has to endure because of the cowardice of Mr. Gojo. I have made attempts to locate him, yet regrettably, he remains elusive. It is conceivable that he has left town.”

“Oh no—”

“Nevertheless, as a longstanding acquaintance, I stand ready to assume the role vacated by Mr. Gojo, to spare Catherine from any further public humiliation,” Mr. Zenin declared. “Moreover, I am willing to extend a respectable proposal, one far superior to what the Gojo family could offer.”

“Your willingness to undertake such a responsibility is truly admirable, Mr. Zenin, but—”

“Will your father agree with your choice?” Mr. Winchester questioned.

“My father has always had faith in my judgment, trusting that I make decisions for the best. I believe he would be pleased if I had the opportunity to unite with the daughter of his trusted confidant.”

Mr. and Mrs. Winchester exchanged glances, a silent agreement made between them.

“Very well, then. Let us waste no time and proceed with the preparations.” Mr. Winchester declared decisively.

“Mother, father, who are you talking to?” Catherine's voice echoed as she descended the stairs, her dress trailing behind her in anticipation of news about Satoru. To her surprise, she found her parents and Mr. Zenin waiting for her.

“Darling, there's good news—there will be a wedding after all.” Mrs. Winchester announced.

“Really? You found Satoru?” Catherine asked eagerly, her hopes rising.

Suddenly Mr. Zenin stepped forward, and took Catherine's hand in his, pressing a kiss to its back. “I will be your spouse, Miss Catherine. I won't allow that Satoru boy to humiliate you any further.” he declared with a disconcerting smile that sent a chill down Catherine's spine.

“What?” she thought, her mind reeling in disbelief. “No, this cannot be happening. How could I possibly marry him?”

“I shall return tomorrow morning, please excuse me.” Mr. Zenin declared, as he bid farewell to the family.

Catherine immediately rushed to her parents after his leave, “Father, Mother, please don't make me marry him.” She pleaded earnestly.

“Silly girl, it's our only recourse.” Mrs. Winchester asserted sternly. “Or do you wish to witness your parents succumb to impoverishment? We can no longer wait for Satoru Gojo who has absconded from his obligations to this family. We must face reality. It was our mistake to pin our hopes on that family when we had a more suitable candidate for you all along. Mr. Zenin will undoubtedly make a fine husband his affluence ensuring our security.”

Catherine stood there, her words caught in her throat, realizing her fate had been sealed, and there was nothing she could do to change it.

“Take a good rest child, you will be marrying Mr. Zenin tomorrow morning. And that’s final!”

Is this really happening? Is he truly going to reunite with his deceased father after three years? Satoru pondered, feeling the relentless thud of his heart against his chest.

“He's typically lingering nearby, indulging in those rotten apples from the market,” you remarked with a gentle chuckle, reminiscing about Octavius's eating preferences. “Personally, I find the cherries to be far superior.” Satoru dismissed your words as you began to trail off, not bothering to pay full attention to you and your stories, his focus fixed on finding his father. Impatiently, he stopped his walking, retracting his hand as he shot you a glare full of annoyance. “Could you please take me where my father is? I don’t have time for idle chatter. We have been walking for a while, do you really know where he is?.” Taking in his words, your expression faltered before you quickly composed yourself with a nod. It was understandable, you thought. He hasn’t seen his father for three years. You’re his wife, and a good wife is patient and understanding even if sometimes your husband’s words may be hurtful.

“Of course, my apologies for the distraction. I completely forgotten why are we here.” Satoru realized he had been too harsh on you, and before he could apologize to you, you walked ahead of him prompting him to follow.

“What are you standing there for? Come along.”

After what felt like ages, you both came to a halt in front of a grand old library, as a rush of memories flooded Satoru’s mind. He remembered when he was younger after his lessons hours, his father would take him to buy books, nurturing his love for reading. His father harbored a deep desire for a library, along with the wish to immerse himself in the world of music. However, the demand of his job with his loan company has kept him chained to endless hours of work, until the company eventually went bankrupt. His mother claimed that his father was solely responsible for the mismanagement of his prosperous company, but Satoru thinks otherwise. He knew his father was well capable of the job. He knew his father to be intelligent and persuasive, qualities that didn’t align with the image of someone who would neglect his own company. Satoru had long suspected that something was behind his father’s bankruptcy. However, he didn’t have time to test his theories.

You stepped forward towards the door, turning to Satoru as you spoke. “Wait here. I’ll check if he’s inside.” before disappearing into the library. All Satoru could do now was wait anxiously outside the library.

As you ventured further into the library, darkness shrouded your surroundings, with only the feeble glow of the moon casting a faint illumination, making it challenging to discern your way through the dimly lit space. “Hello, is anyone here?” You called while searching for a match and a candle to provide you light. You paused your search as a faint light from upstairs caught your attention. Gradually, the silhouette of an older man emerged from the shadows, until his full figure was revealed with his inseparable crow companion perched upon his shoulder. A sense of warmth flooded over you as you smiled widely at the sight of your longtime friend.

“Octavius.”

Upon hearing your voice, Octavius turned his light towards you, his lips curling into a smile mirroring yours with the exact amount of affection. “Darling. It’s been quite some time since we last met.” He says with genuine appreciation, missing the days both of you spent together talking endlessly. It’s been months since he last saw you, as you insisted on staying buried under your usual spot under the tree, patiently waiting for Satoru’s arrival every day.

“I couldn’t agree more!”

Octavius chuckled softly, the sound echoing faintly in the quiet confines of the library. “What brings you here today, dear? Is there something I can do for you?”

“No, no. That’s not the case. I’m not here to burden you with my matters—”

“(Y/N).” his voice interposed disrupting your train of words. “You know very well that’s not true. Do not hesitate to seek my counsel, for I shall forever be at your disposal.”

Exhaling softly, you nod in affirmation to his discourse before commencing to elucidate the motives behind your visit to Octavius. “It’s a long story to tell. However, there’s someone outside whom I must introduce you—someone eagerly awaiting to meet you.”

“Oh, who might this eager visitor be?” Octavius queried with intrigue.

“You will see.”

“(Y/N), you're well aware of my distaste for surprises. Despite the fact my heart has stopped beating, this old man can still experience the sensation of a heart-stopping moment.” he quipped with a playful lilt adopting the tone of a father scolding his daughter.

You laughed.

“You're quite the dramatist, Octavius. Some things never change.” you teased, turning to exit the library and let Satoru in at once. However, just before departing, you glanced back at Octavius. “Oh, I almost forgot to mention. Le Comte de Monte-Cristo. Splendid. It has secured a place among my most cherished literary treasures.”

“I told you, didn’t I? The book is sheer perfection. Experiencing the emotions of a wronged man through the book is an incomparable feeling.”

“Indeed. I couldn't help but empathize with Dante's plight. Having your planned life ahead of you only to be taken away from wicked men.” you replied, continuing your conversation with Octavius about the recently read book he recommended to you. Reflecting on the parallels between the book's narrative and your own experiences. Your voice trailed off, standing in a moment of silence before you began to speak once again meeting his gaze. “Remarkably familiar, wouldn't you agree?”

Octavius cast a glance back at you, his gaze softened, recalling the tragedy of your fate.

“Now, now. It's not the moment for dwelling on the past, my dear.” Octavius gently intervened, pulling you out of your reverie. “Let’s welcome this special guest you’re so eager to present.” You nodded, refocusing on the purpose of your visit: to reunite your husband with his beloved father.

Noticing your prolonged absence, Octavius made his way downstairs, using the flickering light of a candle to guide him through the labyrinth of books. He sought to recommend a novel with a lighter, and more romantic storyline to uplift your spirits. After feeling a twinge of guilt because of the earlier conversation you both exchanged. With the sound of approaching footsteps echoing softly in the library, Octavius remained absorbed in his search among the books, his fingertips delicately tracing the textures “Ah, darling, I was just perusing for a new novel for you to enjoy. Considering your fondness for romance. I thought 'Middlemarch' might be a splendid choice. It boasts an excellent plot and remarkable prose. I'm certain you'll adore it.” He trailed off, turning to face you taking the book in hand. Yet as he turned, the book slipped from his bony fingers, his eyes widening in disbelief at the sight before him.

“Satoru?” Octavius gasped, his voice barely above a whisper. How was his son down here? No, he cannot be dead, his son’s skin yet hasn’t lost its color. He’s too young to be dead! It’s too early for them to meet up again. His mind reeled with confusion as he struggled to comprehend everything. Satoru's eyes shimmered with unshed tears as he looked back at his father, meeting the form of his father after three long years. His poor father appeared more frail, his white hair thinner, his skin paler than ever, his bones showing off from his arms and his once vibrant blue eyes dulled with age. Despite these noticeable changes, along with the fact he’s meeting the deceased form of his father, Satoru couldn’t care less.

“Father,” Satoru called out, his voice thick with emotion, as tears of joy threatened to spill from his eyes, unable to believe they were finally reunited. Setting aside his light and his animal companion flying off his shoulder, he hurried towards his son. Without hesitation, he enveloped the tall figure of his son, holding him tightly close, still in a state of shock. Satoru released a quivering breath, his emotions overwhelming him while tears streamed down his cheeks. “Father.” he cried out once again. Satoru's embrace tightened as if he feared that loosening his grip would cause his father to vanish into thin air.

“Satoru, son.” his father whispered, his voice filled with emotion, “what are you doing here? You can't be here, not yet.”

Satoru chuckled through his tears, shaking his head as he continued to hold onto his father. “Don't worry about it, Father. I'll explain everything to you.”

For what felt like an eternity, they lingered in each other's embrace, time seeming to stand still as they reveled in the joy of their reunion.

“What!” his father's startled voice resonated through the desolate library, shattering the peaceful ambiance that had settled around them. “You're engaged to (Y/N)?”

Satoru heaved a weary sigh, nodding silently from his seat. “Believe me, Father. Everything is so confusing to me.”

“But, how?” His father's question lingered in the air, demanding further explanation. “Were you acquainted with her? When?” His father’s gaze bore into him, seeking clarity. “Did you truly exchange vows with her?”

“No!” He exclaimed, the words bursting forth. “It was all a mistake! I was meant to marry someone else.”

“Someone else? What do you mean?”

“Mother had arranged a marriage for me with the daughter of an affluent family,” Satoru lamented, his frustration evident in his speech. “We were slated to wed, yet due to a series of unfortunate circumstances, I am now entangled in an undesirable bond with a mere cadaver.”

His father absorbed Satoru’s words in silence, his eyes focused intently on the table before him. “It appears your mother failed to uphold my final wish for your future.” Raising his eyes to meet Satoru’s eyes, he asked with a solemn tone. “Do you hold affection for this woman?” His father’s question caught Satoru off guard, causing him to pause and reflect. Did he harbor genuine affection for Catherine?

“Though, my acquaintance with her may have been short. I was willing to give Catherine a chance. Love doesn’t magically appears, it grows.” Satoru confessed.

“What about (Y/N)? She didn't mean any harm.” his father reassured “Poor dear sought comfort in your presence to alleviate her solitude. You've shared a connection with her for two years, cherishing the moments you shared with her through your dreams. In a way, you've held affection for her, even if the affection you believed was for someone who didn't exist. If you were willing to give Catherine a chance, why can't you give (Y/N) a chance? Or is it because she is dead?”

“Yes, precisely because she's dead!” Satoru's voice resonated with frustration as he emphasized his point. “Can't you see? I could never marry her!”

Satoru's breaths grew heavier as he released his burdens, however, the sudden sympathetic regard from his father made him redirect his focus. Slowly turning around, Satoru saw you. As you were silently listening to their conversation. How much did you listen to? Standing there, you gaze at both of them with an expression that tugs at Satoru's heartstrings. Without uttering a word, you approached him, while avoiding his intense blue eyes. Now in front of him, you delicately disengaged the ring from your skeletal finger, bestowing it upon his palm. Your voice, scarcely more than a fragile whisper, as you said the following words, “I believe this belongs to you.”

In silence, Satoru witnessed your departure while a soft breeze gently lifted your torn veil, carrying it aloft in a poignant farewell. Despite the apparent closure, an unforeseen melancholy enveloped his spirit. He ought to have felt emancipated, liberated from a commitment borne of misinterpretation. Yet, your leaving left him feeling strangely hollow. Contemplating the ring now nestled in his hand, he was unsure of who this ring belonged to anymore.

Catherine stood before her reflection, as her maid adjusted the final embellishments of her bridal attire. Despite the turmoil within, she dared not shed a tear, constrained by the expectations placed upon her. As a bride who harbored no aspirations for matrimonial bliss, she bore the burden of her predicament with a heavy heart. In her vulnerability, her thoughts wandered to Satoru, a luminary amidst the gloom of her circumstances.

“Where are you, Satoru?” she silently pleaded, her heart yearning for his comforting presence. Despite her initial reservations about their engagement, once she met Satoru, he managed to break her walls down. The idea of facing the challenges ahead with a friend like Satoru by her side offered a semblance of comfort. Now, on the brink of union with Mr. Zenin, Catherine's spirit breaks. The prospect of forsaking the bond she shared with Satoru rents her soul asunder. Expecting her wedding day to be a harbinger of happiness, Catherine now stood in the dimly lit church, her senses dulled as she absorbed the echo of Mr. Zenin's vows. While the attendees were wearing solemn expressions, appeared eager for the ceremony to conclude as soon as possible.

Catherine now finds herself enveloped in a state of detachment, her body present but her mind adrift in a realm far removed from the present moment. The touch of Mr. Zenin's arm around her waist repulsed her. Her spirit ached for liberation from the shackles of this marital prison, She dreaded the touch of Mr. Zenin, and its suffocating weight. Following the exchange of vows and the priest's proclamation of their union, Catherine raised her gaze, tears glistening in her brown eyes. Each tear bore witness to the silent suffering she is enduring in the depths of her heart.

“Catherine, you are finally mine.” Mr. Zenin declared, leaning in to place a kiss upon Catherine's cheek. Forcing herself to stay still to receive his displays of fake affection. At that moment, Catherine came to the stark realization that she was utterly alone in the world.

As Satoru trailed after you, a tumult of emotions churned within him, burdened by the weight of guilt for inadvertently causing you pain. He had never intended to hurt you, he never meant to hurt anyone. Satoru went to the lengths of seeking guidance from the deceased, after learning your popularity among them. A man with a sword across his chest confirmed he had spotted you near their bar—the very place where you bought Satoru. He made his way to the tavern, and upon reaching its entrance, he was greeted by the delicate tones of a piano resonating in the empty locale. The melancholy melody being played for an absent audience. Satoru stepped inside, and as he advanced further, he caught sight of you at the organ, your back turned toward him. He couldn’t see your face, however it was easy to guess how you were feeling by the tones you were playing saturated with sorrow. Satoru drew nearer, positioning himself beside the organ.

“I apologize for my earlier words. I never meant to hurt you. It's just...” He paused, exhaling deeply before continuing. “Everything happened so quickly. I needed a moment to collect my thoughts.” Taking a seat beside you at the bench, he sought your gaze, yet you remained focused on the instrument, your fingers gracefully dancing across the keys. “I'm sorry for any misunderstandings. I should have been honest with you from the start—”

“It’s fine.” Your soft voice interjected as the melody ceased, though your gaze remained fixed on the keys “I shouldn’t be so naive. There's no nothing to forgive; I was the one who forced you to come down here in the first place.”

In the hush of the moment, Satoru's gaze remained fixed on the keys before him as he summoned the courage to voice one of his lingering uncertainties. “During those two years, were you there, quietly listening, keeping me company in the woods?” Your lack of response served as an eloquent confirmation.

“For two years, you stood by me, unbeknownst to me.” Satoru reflected with incredulous laughter. “I didn't know you at all, not in the physical sense. Yet, you still awaited my arrival every day for two years.”

“Why?” Satoru's question lingered, leaving you unable to provide an answer.

With a shaky sigh, you eventually admitted. “I found solace in your companionship. While listening to your poetic ramblings, as well as the way you express your emotions in solitude, believing you have no one to share them with. And your drawings, the ones you dismiss as 'not accurate,' when in truth, they are the most beautiful creations I've ever seen. And the time we've shared, even if only within the realm of your dreams... was among the most cherished experiences of my life. I simply find contentment in your presence.”

“I desired you to witness the best version of myself, fearing you might be disillusioned by my true appearance. When I heard you speak your vows, pure elation swept over me. So, I brought you here, convinced those vows were meant for me. However... I was too consumed by my own happiness to discern that your sentiments towards me were quite the opposite.” You trailed off with a wistful smile danced across your lips. “You're light, illuminating the paths of those lost in the dark. Your presence has profoundly enriched my life, without you even realizing it. In many ways, you saved me. It's quite amusing to say that when I'm already dead.” After some moments of silence, your fingers rested on the piano’s keys once again playing your previous melody.

Satoru found himself taken aback by the profound depths of your heartfelt confession, his innermost sentiments stirred by the sincerity of your words, yet incapable of expressing the intricate blend of emotions swirling within him. Observing your resumption of the melody, he was overcome by an irresistible impulse to participate, delicately extending his hand to caress the keys from his vantage point, momentarily interrupting the ethereal ambiance of your composition. Startled by this unexpected interjection, you paused and lifted your gaze to meet his, curiosity reflected in your eyes. Satoru let out a relieved smile upon seeing your eyes again. When Satoru asked if he could play a piece for you, you nodded stiffly, your hands resting on your lap as you allowed him to take over the piano. Starting softly, his notes echoed the melancholic undertones of your previous melody, but as the piece unfolded, the volume swelled and his fingers danced across the keys with practiced ease, as though the music flowed effortlessly from within him. Listening to his composition, a sense of déjà vu washed over you, recognizing the melody as something familiar, yet unable to place it. Before you knew it, your fingers found their way to the organ, seamlessly blending into Satoru's piece as the two of you created a harmonious melody together. In that sublime moment of shared musical communion, your eyes met in a silent exchange, each glance suffused with an unspoken understanding and connection that transcended the boundaries of spoken language.

Both of your fingers ceased their movements, bringing the beautiful melody to a gentle stop.

Satoru's smile grew as he spoke, “Do you happen to recognize this piece?”

You nodded, allowing a smile to grace your lips as well. “I do, but strangely, I can't recall where I heard it.”

“It was my father's cherished composition.” His words hung in the air, and at that moment, a profound memory stirred within you, unlocking a hidden piece of your past.

The sunlight on that particular day felt unusually warm, its rays enveloping you in a comforting embrace as you made your way out of the gardens. Entering the musical room, you paused at the doorway, captivated by the sight of Octavius already engrossed in playing a melody you had never heard before. Respecting his concentration, you lingered silently, allowing the symphony of notes to wash over you in a mesmerizing wave.

When Octavius eventually ceased playing and glanced back at you, “How long were you standing there, dear?” he asked.

“Long enough to witness such a masterpiece.” you replied warmly, appreciating the sentiment behind his composition.

With a gesture, Octavius invited you to join him at the bench, which you accepted without hesitation. “I composed this piece for my son.” he revealed, prompting your curiosity.

“Your son?” you inquired.

Octavius nodded, a hint of concern resting in his eyes. “Yes, my 12-year-old son. Sometimes, I worry that he feels alone in this world. So I composed this piece, so when he feels lonely he can feel my presence through it.” A gentle smile graced his lips as he continued, “Would you like to meet him? He's a polite and friendly boy, with a great passion for music and books. I'm certain the two of you will get along just fine.”

Touched by Octavius's openness and the opportunity to meet his son, you nodded eagerly, grateful for the chance to have a connection with someone who shared your love for the arts.

Lost in thought, you hadn't realized you were zoning out until Satoru's worried voice broke through your reverie, calling out to you. Startled, you blinked and refocused your attention, turning towards him with a sheepish smile.

Standing up, you extended your hand to Satoru, with a determined gleam in your eyes. “Come with me.” Satoru sensing your determination, he took your hand, ready to follow wherever you led.

“Please, Octavius. There has to be something you can do.” You pleaded.

Octavius sighed deeply, his eyes closing momentarily as he wrestled with your request. "It is unnatural and perhaps risky, but surely there's a book for it.” he conceded reluctantly.

Satoru, perplexed by the exchange, he approached with a furrowed brow and a hand gently placed upon your shoulder, urging you to face him. “(Y/N). What’s going on? What are you talking about?”

Your response was but a sheepish smile, accompanied by a gentle pat upon his hand before withdrawing. “A solution has been found.”

“Here it is—” Octavius's voice interjected after some moments of searching and inspecting the book's contents, as he descended the stairs, carrying a large book with him. “This will do.” As Octavius presented the large book containing the sought-after solution, you stepped forward to retrieve it, walking towards Satoru and extending the book to him. Puzzled, Satoru stared down at you, his confusion palpable.

“This volume contains the pathway to return to the realm of the living. There is still time, but haste is paramount.” Satoru lifted the book from your skeletal hands, a sense of unease crept over him, a nagging feeling that something wasn't right.

“I’m not going back.” Satoru declared firmly, his statement catching you off guard with its unexpectedness.

“What?”

“Son, what do you mean?” Octavius interjected, moving forward to stand beside you, both of you staring at Satoru with a blend of perplexity and apprehension.

“I said, I’m not going back. There's no point in returning.” Satoru clarified, his gaze locking onto yours with a poignant intensity. He gently took your hand in his and withdrew the ring from his pocket, the one you had given him earlier under the impression it didn't belong to you. With a tender touch, he slid it onto your finger.

“Satoru?”

“Marry me.” You stood rooted to the spot, enveloped by the weight of his request, feeling the gravity of the moment press upon you from all sides.

“Son, you must know what you are getting yourself into. As you can see, my dear (Y/N) is dead. Your marriage will pose complications; the vows are solemnized only until death do you part, and death has already parted her. For it to be an authentic union, it demands a significant sacrifice.” You released Satoru and turned to face Octavius.

“You mean?”

“Satoru would have to forsake the life he once knew and renew his vows in the realm of the living, partaking in the sacred wine of ages.” Octavius elucidated further.

“Poison.” you gasped, the word heavy on your tongue. Turning to Satoru, your eyes pleaded with him, filled with desperation., you begged, “Satoru, you see? You can’t do this. I could never ask you this. You’re young and have a whole life ahead of you, Our time ran out, but there’s still time for you—”

“I will do it.” Satoru interrupted firmly, his resolve unwavering.

“No. You don’t know what are you saying.” you protested.

“If it entails sacrificing my life to be with you and my father down here, then I shall do so.” Satoru declared resolutely, taking your hand once again.

Overwhelmed by his declaration, you turned to Octavius for support, “Octavius, you must get your son to think right.”

Octavius sighed. “I will respect whatever decision my son takes. There’s nothing I can do.”

Satoru pulled you towards him, his gaze softening with tenderness. “Marry me, (Y/N). Properly this time. I will not let you suffer alone anymore.”

“What about Catherine?” You whispered.

“Catherine is a part of my past, a chapter that is now being closed. What matters now is us.” Despite the sincerity in his eyes, you couldn't shake the lingering doubt that lingered within your heart. Yet you find yourself accepting in the end. For so long you have yearned for this moment, now that you have it, you can't let his chance slip through your fingers so easily.

“Gather around everybody. A proper wedding shall take place back in the realm of the living and each of you is cordially invited to bear witness. Let us unite in celebration and love as my fiancé and I will embark on this journey together.”

“Thank you all for gathering here today to celebrate my union between myself and my beloved wife, Catherine.” Mr. Zenin addressed the gathering, his words carrying a weight of solemnity. “I vow before you all to be a steadfast companion to Catherine, offering my unwavering support through every joy and trail that life may present.” As he raised his glass of champagne in a toast, the guest remained indifferent to the gloomy union, obligated to witness. As for Catherine, she was lost in thought, unmoved by her husband’s words, her gaze distant and unfocused. “This day shall forever be etched in memory as the day I am blessed to call Catherine my own, and I swear to all of you that I will—”

Before Mr. Zenin could continue, the moment was shattered by a cacophony of screams echoing from outside. Panic ensued as the guests scrambled to their feet, their expressions wrought with concern as they went out to see what was the commotion about. Once they did, their eyes widened in horror at the surreal sight that greeted them; the undead walking among them! Their grotesque forms descended upon the town. The guests fled from the wedding party seeking refuge from the nightmare unfolding before their eyes. Between the chaos, Catherine despite the lingering fear inside her, she remains calm. Her eyes fixed on the procession of the undead making their way towards the town’s church. Without hesitation, she followed in their wake, her wedding dress trailing behind her. She couldn’t care less now that her husband ran off scared. As she makes her way to see who this strange wedding belongs to.

Once their beloved guests were settled into the church of the living, Octavius stayed behind with his son before the ceremony, placing a comforting hand upon Satoru’s shoulder. “Son, are you absolutely certain about your decision?” He was sure. He was ready to take responsibility and form a life with you even if it meant he would die.

Satoru met his father’s gaze and nodded resolutely. “Yes, father. I am certain. I cannot deny that I was initially overcome by fear and frustration, unable to comprehend the unfolding events. But now, I’m sure she is the one destined to walk by my side.” He admitted, his tone tinged with a sense of vulnerability. “What I regret is that we did not cross paths sooner, thinking that if we did. Perhaps, she will still be alive. For two long years, she waited faithfully for me and now I refuse to let her wait a moment longer. Today, I shall stand as her husband.”

“Finally, my son is marrying for love. That’s all ever I wish for you.” His father expressed with a touch of emotion.

Satoru’s smile widened as he nodded at his father’s words. “I will make you proud.”

“You have already done so,” his father affirmed, his hand tenderly caressed his cheek before letting go. “Now, go and make (Y/N) yours.”

As Satoru stood at the altar, he learned a couple of things in this unexpected journey. Despite the barriers of physical appearance and mortality, his love for you remains. With a new clarity, he pledged to honor and cherish you for all eternity. That’s the least he can do for you. As you entered the church, holding the dead bouquet that had accompanied you since the day you departed from the realm of the living, Satoru’s heart swelled with awe. Despite your bones sticking out, you exuded a timeless beauty that took his breath away. He regretted not having noticed your beauty sooner. As you got closer, Satoru took hold of you, standing together now as you prepared to exchange vows properly this time.

“With this hand, I shall lift the burden of your sorrows. Your cup shall never run dry, for I shall be your wine.” He recites now with ease the vows, holding the empty cup in his hand.

You found yourself gazing into those mesmerizing eyes, each hue reminiscent of the depths of the clear sky. You began to recite your vows as well, your voice carrying the weight of your love and commitment. “With this hand, I shall lift the burden of your sorrows.” You took hold of the wine ages, to pour it down Satoru’s cup. “Your cup shall never run dry, for I shall be—” For I shall be.

What are you doing?

You halted your vows, as your eyes fell upon a feminine figure observing the ceremony from the shadows.

Catherine?

A surge of conflicting emotions washed over you. This is wrong. Satoru’s smile waned as he noticed your hesitation. He shoots you an encouraging gaze urging you to continue. Though, you still were struggling to find your voice, stumbling over your words, unable to complete your vows.

“For I shall be your wine.” Satoru finished your sentence, his hand reaching for the cup containing the deadly elixir. But you intervened before he could take a sip.

“I can’t.”

Satoru’s beating heart shattered into a million pieces. “Why?”

“This isn’t right.”

“How so?” Satoru inquired, gently lowering the cup to grasp both of your hands.

“Satoru, I was intended to belong to another. Meant to be someone else’s wife. But my dreams were stolen from me, and now…I’ve stolen them from someone else.”

“I know all about your past.” Satoru interjected squeezing your hands together. “But none of that matters to me. All that matters is the present and what we can built together.”

You shook your head stubbornly, feeling tears welling up in your eyes, unable to hold back the emotions swirling inside you. “This isn’t love. What you feel for me is empathy. For a woman who met a tragic fate. You don’t love me Satoru.”

“I do love you,” Satoru exclaimed, his voice filled with desperation. “Don’t you see that I’m willing to die for you? I may have not realized my love for you before but now I’m here to redeem my actions. My heart belonged to you the very moment I saw you in my dreams.”

Your closed your eyes, your breaths coming out heavy. “You love Catherine. Not me.”

“No, you’re wrong.”

Both you and Satoru adverted your gazes as a female voice interrupted your conversation. Catherine stepped from the shadows, making her presence known. Satoru’s eyes widened in surprise, his mind racing with questions about her sudden appearance.

“We thought if we force this feeling love eventually it will turn real love so we wouldn’t be lonely. Satoru. He wants you.”

You couldn’t fathom her assertion, shaking your head with a resigned expression. “How could you possibly know?”

“I see it.” She insisted as she approached closer. Catherine then intertwined your hand with Satoru’s, her voice carrying a solemn assurance. “His love for you is genuine. Whatever sentiments he may have harbored for me were purely friendship.”

As she offered her reassurance with her kind words, Satoru’s gaze softened as he looked down at her, a profound sense of gratitude evident in his eyes.

“I love you, (Y/N).” Satoru’s voice was filled with sincerity and earnestness as he spoke, his eyes pleading with you to understand the depth of his feelings. “Please let me marry you today.”

He cradled your countenance in his palms as he inclined to savor your frigid lips bereft of vitality, while your tears entwined with the fervent kiss. You tried to resist him, yet you find yourself powerless, unable to deny the hold he has over your heart. Thus, you yielded, the profound affection you harbor for him overwhelms your every resistance. The embrace of the kiss loosens its hold, and he still cradles your face unable to let you go.

“Have you lost your senses? You've just kissed a dead person.” You uttered with a tearful chuckle.

“Dearest soon enough, I'll be in the same state.” He leaned in, his lips meeting the icy surface of your cheek in a gentle kiss.

“Ah, weddings! A scene that never fails to moisten my eyes. Yet, I must confess, a ceremony such as this—a bride from the realm of the departed, and a groom among the living—surely stands as a unique testament to the enduring power of love. Nevertheless, do we not all cherish tales of joyful resolutions?” Naoya's unexpected entrance into the church was marked by a calculated grin, his blonde locks framing his confident countenance as he surveyed the gloomy scene, his gaze inevitably drawn to his wife, Catherine standing beside the couple.

“Catherine, my dear, it is time to return home.” He declared, his tone tinged with an authoritative command. Catherine recoiled subtly at the sound of his voice, whispering a soft denial. Mr. Zenin, displeased by her response, advanced towards Catherine, seizing her wrist with an iron grip, compelling her to comply, eliciting gasps of astonishment from the gathered guests.

“You are mine to take! Where do you think you are going? Your dowry is my entitlement; do not forget the purpose behind our union!”

Catherine struggled against his hold, fixing him with a defiant glare. “What wealth? We possess none! This marriage was intended to salvage my family from ruin!”

“What!”Mr. Zenin erupted before he could respond further.

Satoru intervened, “Release her.”

Mr. Zenin turned to face Satoru with a scowl etched upon his features, his grip tightening around Catherine's wrist. “She's my wife, and I have the prerogative to do as I please with her.”

Amid the chaos, time seemed to pause as you recognized the man before you, memories of heartache flooding back at the sight of him. “Naoya?” Your voice pierced through the clamor, drawing his gaze toward you with immediate intensity upon hearing his name spoken by your lips.

“(Y/N)?”

“Our union shall forever be thwarted by the stringent decree of our family. My dearest, I find myself incapable of enduring another fleeting moment bereft of your presence. My affection for you knows no bounds, and I shall traverse any obstacle to claim you as my own.” Naoya proclaims, enfolding you closely against his chest, his lips tenderly grazing the crown of your head.

“Your sentiments mirror the intensity of my own, my beloved. The anguish of separation rends my very soul.” You reciprocate.

Naoya relinquishes the embrace, cradling your visage as his lips tenderly caress yours with fervent ardor, leaving you breathless.

“Let us elope. We must not allow ourselves to be ensnared by the strictures imposed upon us.” He proposes, his suggestion instilling a tremor of fear within you, yet overridden by the depth of your love for him.

“We shall convene within the bosom of the woodland at the stroke of midnight. Thereafter, we shall carve out our destiny together, emancipated from the shackles of societal convention.”

“Will you ever find satisfaction?” you queried, your voice trembling with poignant emotion. “I might have eventually forgiven your plundering of my riches, leaving me bereft and awaiting our union. But why… why did you have to snatch away my life as well?”

You can still keenly remember the feeling of his sword cleaving through your chest, the excruciating pain that tore through you, and the icy tendrils of the air wrapped around you while you lay there, bleeding out no one to offer solace or bid you farewell. Surrendering yourself to the inevitability of death, you found no escape, no alternative but to embrace the abyss that awaited.

“I didn't deserve that.” You whispered, tears tracing their path down your cheeks, a silent testament of your pain.

Satoru's inner fury simmered, his sense of indignation growing with each passing moment. He couldn't fathom the selfishness of the man before him, who callously stole your life for his own desires.

“Naoya.” a voice intervened, adding another layer of intensity to the scene. Naoya's grasp on Catherine loosened, allowing her to rush to your side.

“How's that bastard of your father doing?” Octavius now asked, standing before the blond man, his tone dripping with disdain.

“Octavius?” Naoya whispered, a flicker of recognition igniting within him as he beheld the deceased form of his father's former business partner.

“I see that you've inherited his foul blood, brimming with selfishness, ugliness, and pride.” Octavius spat, his words laced with venom. “You killed an innocent woman, deceitfully leading her on false promises—with the very things she held dear. Your family is nothing but a brood of vultures, feasting on the vulnerable. Your father ruined me, stripping away every ounce of my hard earned fortune, leaving my family defenseless. But that wasn’t enough, was it? Now you’ve followed in your father’s despicable footsteps by taking (Y/N)‘s life. I pray that you and your vile kin never found peace. For I know someone as wretched as yourself will never find redemption.”

Naoya erupted into laughter, his sarcasm dripping from every word. “You’re a fool, Octavius.” He taunted. “My father merely exploited your naivety to his advantage. Don’t blame me for it.”

His laughter abruptly ceased as a firm grip seized his shoulder. “That’s enough.” Satoru interjected, his eyes ablaze with a dangerous rage.

Naoya scoffed, shrugging off Satoru’s grip on his shoulder. In a swift motion, he lunged towards one of the guests, seizing a sword protruding from their open chest. “I refuse to leave here without my wife!”

“(Y/N), take Catherine with you.”

You complied at Satoru’s command, positioning Catherine behind you.

Naoya’s eerie laughter rang inside the church, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Do I have to kill you too?” He sneered.

“Satoru!” His father’s voice thundered, hurling a sword towards his son to equalize the confrontation. Now both men were engaged in a battle of life and death, their swords clashing against each other, the metallic clang reverberating through the room. While Naoya was a skilled swordsman, Satoru was inexperienced in the art of combat. Though, he fought with raw determination, as they were both thrown around, refusing to yield. Blinded by rage, Satoru unleashed a fierce strike that sent Naoya crashing to he ground, his arm slashed by the force of the blow.

“What are you waiting for?” Naoya tainted with a mocking smile, challenging him to end his life. “Kill me!!”

He hungers to end his life for the pain his father inflicted upon Octavius, his malevolence in ending your life as well for forcing Catherine’s hand in marriage.

In a moment of clarity, the thirst for vengeance fades from his eyes, as he lowered his sword, catching Naoya off guard. “Your fate is not mine to decide.” Satoru proclaimed, turning away and motioning for you to take his sword. Descending from the altar, you approached, ready to meets out your own justice. Lifting the sword with both of your hands, you prepared to strike. Naoya gasped in fear, shutting his eyes together to the incoming attack, however it never came. Confusion etched across his face as he looked up at you, only to be met with a cold, unwavering glare.

“I refuse to let your blood stain my hands.” You declared, tossing the sword across the room, and turning to your guests with a serene smile. “My beloved guests, the celebration shall continue. Join us for an after-party.” They chattered among them with eerie and anticipated smiles, as they circled around Naoya’s fallen form. Naoya’s cries of desperation echoed through the hall, but you remained unmoved by his pleas, allowing the deceased to drag Naoya away to face the most appalling punishments reserved for those as wicked as him.

Approaching Satoru and Catherine, you initiated with a genteel squeeze of Catherine's hand, imparting a gracious smile. "I extend my deepest gratitude," you conveyed with earnestness. Catherine reciprocated with a nod, gently returning the pressure of your hand. “There's no need to thank me.”

Releasing Catherine's hand, you turned towards Satoru, who already held the chalice containing the wine of ages. Despite his prior avowal of readiness to offer himself for you, an insatiable need for confirmation lingered. Satoru nodded with a steadfast demeanor, his grasp on your hand unwavering. “Without a doubt.” he asserted with conviction.

Satoru remains true to his word, committing to spend an eternity by your side in the realm of the deceased. Perhaps, amid the vast expanse of eternity, both of you may find each other once more in another life, vowing never to forget one another. This time around, you plan to live a longer life, cherishing every moment together and appreciating the time you have without regrets.

Author’s Note Please don’t let this fic flopped I really worked hard on this one. Please check out my other works at my page, thanks for reading!!

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leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesworld · 23 days

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CALM AFTER THE STORM |BTS OT7 X READER| HYBRID AU (M)

{Chapter One – Disgusting Humans}

Pairing: OT7 BTS!HYBRID X FEM!HUMAN READER.

Kim Namjoon: Black Mackenzie Valley Alpha wolf

Kim Soekjin: Alpha White Lion

Min Yoongi: Alpha White Jaguar

Jung Hosoek: Alpha Snow Leopard

Park Jimin: Alpha Albino Cobra

Kim Taehyung: Alpha White/ Bleached Tiger

Jeon Jungkook: Alpha Black Panther

Reader: Heaven Valentino

Status: Ongoing

RATED (M) FOR MATURE

Words: 2.4k!

WARNING: EVENTUAL SMUT, BLOOD GORE, DETAILED GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION, ABUSE (ALL FORMS), PROFANITY, VIOLENCE, MENTIONS OF SUICIDE, CHARACTER DEATH(MINOR), SADOMASOCHISM ACTS, MENTIONS OF BDSM, ETC...

CHAPTER WARNING: The following chapter contains sensitive and distressing subject matter, including references to child rape, kidnapping, and child trafficking. If you find such topics triggering or uncomfortable, I encourage you to exercise self-care and consider avoiding this particular chapter. Your mental and emotional well-being always come first.

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MATERIALIST

~Valentino Mansion~

3RD PERSON'S POV

Heaven Valentino, a skilled and determined woman, had just finished a rigorous training session at her gym. With precision and composure, she fired round after round at a target dummy, hitting the bullseye every time. Satisfied with her performance, she exited the gym and began making her way back to her room.

As she walked, a voice called out to her,

"Ms. Valentino?" It was her secretary and trusted right-hand man, Park Hyung-jae, hurrying to catch up with her.

Curious, she turned to face him. "Yes, Jae?"

"Someone is requesting your presence," Jae informed her, the urgency evident in his voice.

Heaven's sharp mind instantly assessed the situation.

"Who is it, and what role do they play?" she calmly inquired.

Jae answered without missing a beat.

"Choi Woobin, Chief Executive General Officer," he replied, conveying that the person in question held a position of significance.

"Very well," she replied nonchalantly.

"Set up an appointment for two in the afternoon. If he fails to arrive on time, I will not entertain him. Punctuality is of utmost importance to me."

With that, she moved on, resolute in her decision. It was typical of her to make swift judgments and take charge of her own schedule, refusing to waste time on those who did not value timeliness.

Her composed demeanor left Jae slightly taken aback.

"Well, that was easier than I expected," he mused to himself, shrugging off the surprise. With a sense of relief, he left to fulfill his assigned tasks.

~Heaven's Room~

Heaven's POV

Ah, I knew it wouldn't take long for him to come begging. I could see right through his façade, right from the start. You see, there are very few things that I despise more than tardiness, laziness and liars.

Hybrid abusers.

Growing up as the youngest daughter of the illustrious Valentino family, I've had my fair share of enemies. From the moment I entered this world, there were those who sought to bring me down, to harm me, or even to kidnap me, all in an attempt to weaken my family. But these feeble-minded individuals could never succeed.

Many assumed that, as a wealthy and privileged young woman, I would be nothing more than a spoiled brat with no ability to defend herself.

But oh, how wrong they were.

From the day I could walk and comprehend the world around me, I have been trained relentlessly.

The Valentinos believe in honing the skills and fortitude of their children, regardless of their gender. So, from the tender age of four, I began my journey towards becoming a force to be reckoned with.

By the time I reached fifteen, I had accomplished what most could only dream of. I graduated high school with a flawless 5.0 GPA. But my thirst for knowledge was insatiable, leading me to a prestigious university known as the "Gifted Souls."

In just a few short years, I secured a PhD in psychology, a Masters in business, and even delved into the realm of fashion. I achieved all of this by the tender age of twenty-two, and now, at the age of twenty-three, I am well on my way to solidifying my empire and making a name for myself.

The professors at my university were astounded by my brilliance, bestowing upon me the moniker of the 'female version of Albert Einstein.' But, I paid little attention to such trivialities.

My single-minded focus was on gaining knowledge and establishing myself as a force in the business world. I aim to take over one of my parents' companies, the very essence of the Valentino empire.

People may see me as a woman who walks with an iron fist. When they encounter me, they don't think of me merely as Heaven of the Valentino family, they see Heaven Valentino, a woman who commands respect and exudes power.

Some have even had the audacity to refer to me as the ice princess, the demoness or even the female Adolf Hitler. But I take such labels in stride because I know the true strength that lies within me.

As an individual who values efficiency and productivity, I possess a limited tolerance for trivial matters or individuals who impede progress.

In the circle with which I surround myself, idleness and unproductive behavior have no place.

Vigilance remains paramount, as there are perpetually individuals plotting one's downfall or even one's demise, and I personally acknowledge the latter as the ultimate threat.

Over time, I have accumulated a considerable list of adversaries. The number of instances where I have inadvertently provoked others is too extensive to accurately quantify, such is the nature of my assertive personality.

When confronted with something disagreeable or incongruous to my stated preferences, I swiftly take decisive action.

The ability to discern and rectify undesirable situations is a responsibility I take seriously, akin to the saying,

"With great power comes great responsibility."

In my case, this responsibility is focused solely on my survival.

While some may perceive my approach as cold or detached, it is merely a matter of survival in a world where dangers often lurk beneath the surface.

In conclusion, my aversion to nonsense and unwavering commitment to productivity have inevitably resulted in the development of numerous adversaries.

This is an outcome I readily accept due to the assertive nature of my character.

My consistent and immediate response to unfavorable circumstances is driven by a sense of responsibility towards self-preservation.

Ultimately, it is this unwavering dedication to my own well-being that helps me navigate the precarious landscape of existence.

I felt my eyes narrow as I thought about the man who had recently come into my crosshairs,

Mr. Choi, the Chief Executive General Officer of Seoul National Police.

To the public, he was a respected figure in his early fifties, but I knew the dark secrets that lurked beneath his facade.

Mr. Choi's wife had tragically succumbed to stage four cancer, leaving him without any children to carry on his legacy.

Many saw him as a pillar of the community, a dedicated servant of the people. But I saw through the facade to the truth - he was a twisted, solipsistic man who had been engaged in despicable acts.

It was a revelation that had shaken me to the core when I had discovered that Mr. Choi was involved in taking bribes from hybrid traffickers.

The thought of such corruption within the ranks of law enforcement made my blood boil.

But what truly turned my stomach was the knowledge that he was also a child rapist and a sadistic individual who derived pleasure from the suffering of others.

Only I and my uncle knew the extent of Mr. Choi's depravity. My uncle ran a Hybrid facility called Hybrid Heaven (HH), dedicated to rescuing hybrids from abuse and capturing traffickers who sought to exploit them for profit.

When my uncle had uncovered Mr. Choi's involvement in these heinous activities, he had turned to me for help in bringing him to justice.

With the help of my loyal team of associates, I had quickly gathered evidence of Mr. Choi's crimes. It was not difficult to connect the dots once they realized that a police officer was complicit in covering up the illegal activities of hybrid trafficking.

And when Mr. Choi's name had surfaced as the linchpin in the operation, I wasted no time in setting my plan into motion.

I stood in my room and felt a surge of anger and revulsion towards the man who had committed such atrocities. I knew that he was reaching out in a desperate attempt to cover his tracks, but I also knew that I held the power to bring him to his knees.

With a steely resolve, I prepared myself for the confrontation that lay ahead. I would not rest until Mr. Choi faced the full force of justice for his crimes.

And in that moment, I squared my shoulders and steeled my gaze, I knew that I was ready to confront the darkness that lurked within the heart of a man who had once been seen as a paragon of virtue.

°●°○°●°○°●°○°●°○°●°○°●°○°●°•°•°•°•°•°•°

~Mayás Fashion House~

As I arrived at my company building, the energy in the air shifted as the employees stopped in their tracks to greet me politely. With a nod and a smile, I returned their greetings, keeping the interactions brief.

I made my way to the private elevator that would take me up to the 8th floor where the meeting room awaited.

As the elevator came to a stop, I stepped out and approached the meeting room. The transparent glass walls and doors allowed me to catch a glimpse of Mr. Choi inside, his figure pacing nervously.

I watched as he reached for a handkerchief to dab at his sweat, a reaction that I found somewhat distasteful. Pushing open the doors, I sauntered over to one of the swivel chairs, disrupting Mr. Choi's anxious movements.

"Good Afternoon, Mr. Choi," I greeted him calmly, causing him to visibly startle. With hesitant steps, he made his way towards me and took a seat on the opposite side of the table.

"G-good af-afternoon, Ms. Valentino," he stuttered out, clearly flustered by my presence.

"Relax, Mr. Choi. I just need some information from you, and then we'll be done," I reassured him with a light chuckle, meeting his gaze as he averted his eyes and nodded eagerly.

"Good. Now, let's not beat around the bush. Tell me everything you know about the illegal underground Hybrid dealers," I said, leaning back in my chair, a sense of authority evident in my tone.

Mr. Choi hesitated before beginning to speak, revealing details about the underground operation.

He mentioned a mysterious figure known as Black Eagle who orchestrated the kidnapping and sale of hybrids for profit.

The auction took place over five days at a luxurious resort on the outskirts of Seoul, shrouded in secrecy to all but those in attendance.

His eyes met mine as he shared more about the nefarious activities, including a bi-monthly Hybrid auction where rare exotic hybrids were sold off to wealthy clientele with exclusive VIP passes provided by Black Eagle.

I listened intently, absorbing the information and maintaining a composed demeanor throughout.

It was clear that Mr. Choi was apprehensive, but my focused interrogation drew out the pertinent details I needed to pursue further action against the criminal syndicate.

My eyebrows creased as I listened, a mix of disbelief and horror washing over me.

The thought of such a place existing where people indulged in their darkest desires on hybrids, pushing the boundaries of cruelty and exploitation, made my stomach churn with disgust. The depths of depravity that some individuals would sink to astounded me.

He continued, "Participants torture hybrids to feed into their twisted sexual gratification,"

What the actual fuck!

These creatures, who were part human and part animal, deserved compassion and care, not to be subjected to such heinous acts.

It was a stark reminder of the darkest facets of humanity, a side that I never wanted to believe existed.

As the details of the auction event unfolded, each revelation seemed to plunge me deeper into a pit of revulsion.

"They also indulged in the "hunger games" a concept, where the rarest hybrids were paraded and objectified for the amusement of the audience, they would compete to inflict pain and suffering on the hybrid, all for the chance to possess them as prizes."

It felt like a nightmare brought to life. To think of it was sickening beyond words.

My heart ached for the hybrids subjected to such cruelty, for their pain and helplessness in the face of such brutality.

It was a stark reminder of the darker side of society, one that I had never truly comprehended until now.

The callousness and inhumanity displayed towards these creatures left me feeling a deep sense of shame for belonging to the same species.

Despite the turmoil of emotions swirling within me, I forced myself to remain composed, to listen to the grim details of the auction event with a steely resolve.

The urge to lash out in anger and despair clawed at the edges of my composure, but I held onto my restraint, determined to bear witness to the extent of the atrocities being described.

As the final details of the event were laid bare, the mechanics of the auction and the fate of the hybrids outlined in chilling clarity, a cold fury settled over me.

The thought of the buyers participating in such cruelty, of treating living beings as mere objects to be traded and discarded, filled me with a sense of loathing that I had never experienced before.

With a clenched jaw and a heart heavy with sorrow, I steeled myself to hear more, to confront the depths of depravity that lay at the heart of the five-day auction event.

Despite the revulsion and horror that threatened to overwhelm me, I knew that I had to bear witness to the truth, no matter how harrowing it may be.

I made a solemn vow to ensure their safety and vowed to lead them to a life free from such atrocities.

Determination consumed me, and I pledged to keep my promise, declaring my identity as Heaven Valentino.

In the intense confrontation that followed, I confronted Choi Woobin with unwavering resolve, demanding information and justice.

As the truth unfolded and the gravity of his actions came to light, the shock on his face was palpable.

Despite his pleas for mercy, I stood firm, condemning his heinous crimes and refusing to yield to his empty remorse.

Taking charge of the situation, I orchestrated his confession and surrender, unwilling to let him escape accountability.

With a mix of anger and compassion, I ensured that justice prevailed, even as his pleas for forgiveness fell on deaf ears.

The moment was charged with raw emotions as he was escorted away, a tearful reminder of the consequences of his despicable deeds.

After the intense encounter, I made a call to Jae, seeking solace after the harrowing events.

Exiting the meeting room, I left the company building and made my way back home, reflecting on the tumultuous events that had transpired.

~Unknown Location~

3rd Person's POV

Two hybrids were drained and weak, their bodies suffering from the beatings they received for sleeping in. Locked in a heavily secured cell, they endured days without food or water, leaving their mouths dry and their bodies craving molesols of food. Heavy metal shackles dug into their wrists, leaving painful bruises as a reminder of their captivity.

One of the hybrids expressed a strange premonition to his older brother.

"Hyung, I have a weird feeling," he murmured, his eyes distant.

“What is it?” his brother inquired, concern evident in his voice.

“I feel like something big is going to happen,” the younger one replied, his hybrid instincts alerting him to an unseen future.

As they shared a tense moment, the older brother hoped silently,

'I hope it's not bad, my dear brother.'

°●°○°●°○°●°○°●°○°●°○°●°○°●°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Hey lovebugs,

I'm super excited to hear your thoughts on this book!

I added a tad more detail to offer a glimpse into the world of the book, just enough to spark your curiosity without giving away too much. I wanted to provide a little peek behind the curtain to entice you to come along for the ride.

A quick heads up - this book doesn't hold back on the intense stuff. It deals with some heavy, triggering content that might not be everyone's cup of tea. So, fair warning, this is not your typical light and fluffy read. It's raw, real, and might hit close to home for some.

I'm all ears and eager to hear your feedback, so drop a comment and let me know your thoughts.

Thanks a ton for taking the time to check this out and for sharing your thoughts. Your support means the world to me! Let's dive in and see where this wild literary journey takes us. 📚✨

Thanks a ton again!

TAGLIST OPEN!!

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byullielle · 8 months

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Walls Could Talk // Bang Chan x Mafia!Reader

Part 1/3

Trilogy Playlist, Till Death Do Us Part, is what the vows contain. Hitched off to notorious mafia boss Christopher Bahng, and despite her volatile and bratty attitude–it'll be only through her that anyone gets to kill her husband.

Tags: Yakuza/Mafia AU, Est. Marriage, Marriage for Convenience, Eventual Lovers, Resolved Sexual Tension, Smut, Hurt/Comfort

Disclaimer: how chan looks in the freeze mv is exactly how he looks in this fic. themes and graphic descriptions of violence, drugs, substance abuse, panic attacks and disorders, trauma and traumatic responses are present, proceed with caution. chan does NOT cause the reader's trauma, however, and vice versa. MINORS DNI. NSFW Content.

4.5k Words

"Boss," he clears his throat, a nervous gait to him, "We failed to take her," he reports with a shaky voice, "Resistance…it was more than we anticipated,"

Your phone buzzes against the cupholder while the car speeds through the busy Seoul streets. Annoyance flares through your body like an allergy as you grab it with a wince–switching to airplane mode before a yelp escapes your lips. “Sorry,” Felix lowly mutters while concentratedly patching up the wound on your thigh.

For what it’s worth, it wasn’t your fault you were running late to the stupid function your husband was currently throwing. With the guest of honor late and wounded in her car, you hoped to god that he already started without you. Although if you didn’t have the police force under your family’s grasp Seungmin would’ve gotten 5 speeding tickets, at least.

A loud yelp escapes you again, making Felix look up in concern while he’s putting pressure on the bleeding leg, making sure your pretty black dress isn’t soiled by blood. “Sure you can take it boss?” he asks with concern in his voice.

You huff, trying to lean back and endure the pain, especially the sore spot on your stomach after being kicked right by your diaphragm, “I can,”

You’ve argued to him many times that if he simply wanted to network he could do it without you there but apparently according to him, “Your presence is crucial,” and the second part, “Don’t run late,”

Normally, you weren’t one to be tardy to any function with special considerations such as this one but you highly doubt that was the conclusion your husband of 6 months would go to. Women and their womanly whims tend to make them late after all, you knew that much you’d get that specific flack for showing up almost an hour late. “Boss we’re almost there,” Seungmin announces before you groan and try to not mind the searing pain your body is going through before Felix places a square bandage on your thigh. You hand him the ice pack before turning your back so that he can put the dress back in place.

“You sure you could walk properly in this state boss?” he asks, concern lacing his voice before handing you your gun. You hum noncommittedly, slipping the weapon on the garter holster on your more decent thigh before pulling the dress down completely, “Not that I have much of a choice, Felix,”

By the time your car rolls into the estate, Minho, one of your husband’s closest guards is already waiting outside, phone pressed to his ear wearing a very unamused and apathetic expression on his face it scares you a bit. “We should’ve brought Jisung with us,” Seungmin murmurs as he turns exits the car, immediately jogging to your side as Felix heads out first to give instructions to the valet boy. Seungmin reaches a gloved hand out while you take it, trying not to wince in pain as you smile sheepishly at Minho. “Sorry I’m late,”

“The boss isn’t happy,” he immediately counters as you fix yourself up one last time, “Well I’m here now,” you let out with a sigh before straightening your posture.

Minho pushes the door to the function open, the creaking sound of the closed door calling attention towards you while Seungmin and Felix take their posts on your right and left, a few steps back. Some of the chatter stops, all eyes on you but your eyes immediately land on Christopher’s.

And evidently, he isn’t happy.

The eye contact lasts for about 10 seconds, before your eyes start roaming in caution–starting to read the faces of the people who showed up. It grows with you, your stellar ability to read people's body languages and looks, the hardest challenge posed to you is still none other than Christopher.

However, today, he was wearing his heart out his sleeve.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he grabs a pen nearby and taps it against the glass of wine he was nursing, "My beautiful wife," he announces, voice booming throughout the hall as the rest clap to your entrance. It does set off a few sensitive alarms off your head, the booming and drowning sound of claps flying all over, but you could feel Seungmin push you towards Christopher a bit more and snapping you out of the alarming noises.

"Sorry I'm late dear husband," you smile, saccharine and sweet before gently cupping his cheeks, pressing a very chaste kiss on his lips, "I hope I didn't crash the evening too much," you whisper, close to his face before you feel him grip your arm tightly, "You're in big trouble,"

You bite back your retort, knowing better than to start being a smartass now. 'How big a trouble could I truly get when it comes to you,'.

People start approaching you, the prickle of the skin on your arm making itself known as you shake each and every person's hand while trying to read their faces. Some old, some new, all just the same. Chris still had his hand placed on your hip, knowing that the very condition you set him to show up in the first place was for the people to not get too comfortable.

They say it’s a possessive husband’s desire, you say it’s a wife who knows how to play her cards.

Once the crowd around you has died down, distasteful comments of “Women getting ready,” and every variation of it finally gone, Christopher leans forward, “Where the fuck were you,”

You turn to him and smile, “Don’t you know women take forever to get ready, Christopher?”

A punch is lodged into your stomach as you groan. Felix digs his knife into the assailant’s back before tossing him aside, Jeongin is fending off two men single-handedly.

Who in their right mind would attack someone in front of their estate? Idiots. That’s who.

You roll onto your back to dodge an incoming attack from a knife, immediately extending your legs to kick the weapon away–as it flies mid-air you immediately rush to catch it before the assailant could. Once the hilt lands on your palm, you immediately slash the closest body part you can, handing a hit to the jugular.

Blood splatters against your face, making you wince before getting up, the adrenaline from all the defense you have to do still fending off the stomach pain you know would hurt like a bitch. About 5 unconscious bodies are scattered around the perimeter of the infiltrated courtyard, blood painting the pavement. Felix and Jisung manage to hoard in another 3 men while Jeongin finishes off the last one, accidentally ripping his sleeve off as the body slumps down coldly on the pavement. “How many do you think are dead?” you wipe off the blood from your face, “Only two Boss,” Felix estimates, “We’ll clean up here, go get ready,” he immediately suggests before you notion to Jeongin, “Help me walk, I think one of them managed to get me on the thigh,”

“Yes boss,”

“Just tell me why I need to be here Chris,” you exasperatedly sigh, wrenching his hand off you before a sharp pain comes with your inhale. He furrows his brow and raises his hand again, this time a gentle grip encasing your shoulder, “You’re hurt,” he states as a matter of fact, “What happened, Y/N?”

“Just a little scuffle,” you excuse, “Christopher, I swear I have it under control. This is just collateral damage now tell me why I’m here,” you impatiently prod on, not bothering to even shrug his hand off. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

“Do I need to shank someone?”

“No,” he shakes his head, finally lowering his hand, “You just have to observe. You’ve always been good at that,”

You sigh out to relieve some of the pressure off your stomach, nodding along with it before letting out a hum, “What exactly should I be looking for then,”

Christopher looks around and shakes his head slightly, taking your hand before pulling you into a more secluded corner of the venue, dimmed to its maximum before placing a hand on your back, both of you walking around with his head nearly pressed against yours. It looks intimate in an outsider’s view, so loving and so sweet. The contents of his information are anything but.

“The shipments are supposed to arrive today. Instead, we were met with a truck-full of cocaine gone,” he sighs while you keep your eyes on him, “Unfortunately, I suspect we have a rat amongst our ranks,” You furrow your brows, a frown on your face, “And you're suspecting the rat is here?”

“That's what I want you to find out. Anything suspect, you immediately report to me,”

“How far back would it knock sales down?”

Chris shakes his head, “Not a lot, I got that covered at least,”

"Okay,” You nod, laying a hand on his arm before turning towards the crowd. You press a chaste kiss on his cheeks, nearly hitting the corner of his lips before you walk away from him, flipping your hair to the side while walking towards a few women with a confident stride. The stinging pain in your thigh was nothing, so long as you didn’t exert too much pressure against the leg, the stitches wouldn’t open. “Ah! If it isn’t miss Y/N!” one of them notices you as you take a glass of champagne from the passing waiter, a friendly smile immediately plastered on your face. “Hello ladies, mind if I join in?”

A few hours of chatting go by, and you're quite surprised you could find suspect so quickly.

“Oh my husband would never even let me enter his office,” one of the ladies rolls her eyes, while the wife of one Jung Kwang-ho nods erratically, eyes obviously dilated while she goes on rapid-fire speech about her husband getting mad at her for wanting to stay with him in the workspaces. “And I can’t believe he named his nephew heir for his seat in office! Nephew!” she rants while flailing her hands wildly, the sweat on her forehead beading while she wipes them off with a handkerchief already in her hand, “That sister-in-law of mine isn’t even half reliable,” she mutters before you step closer to her, “Are you feeling warm Jung-ssi? You seem like you need a cooler place,” you suggest despite the air conditioning around. You had to ask Seungmin about the temperature later.

“Oh don’t mind me,” she giggles with a little tinge of unhinge-ness to it, “This is just my hot flashes darling, menopausal and all,”

‘Sure,’ couldn’t help but nod, however aside from another wife she was the only one profusely sweating. Continuing to converse with the wives, you couldn't help but keep a keen eye on her. ‘This couldn’t be good,’

The water swishes around as you scroll through the files Jeongin has sent you on your tablet, half your body submerged in the floral fragrance of the tub. You furrow your brows at the percentages presented to you, the loss of the drugs was not that great but something wasn't adding up, something amiss that you couldn't point your finger on.

It was so reminiscent of something, long lost in the back of your mind but before you realize it a few drops of blood start dripping from your nose, a strong tremor shaking through your body as you feel your chest tighten. Tears blur your vision while the crushing weight on your lungs never lets out. You grip the sides of the tub, blurry vision seeing the bell your guards have left you for an emergency.

This was definitely one. Yet you couldn’t lunge forward to grab it, your bare body freezing cold in the water as nails scratching on the board tamper with your hearing. It was deafening, and you didn’t know if you were screaming or a silent wail unable to escape your throat. “Boss!” Jisung runs in with a towel in his hand immediately draping it over you not minding as the tips get dipped in the tub water, “Boss,” his voice softens, a steady hand on your shoulder, “Boss we’re here, should we call Soyeon?” he starts talking while trying to look at you in the eyes.

The searing pain in your thigh and stomach flare up, and then a stinging sensation by your spine jolts you up, tears flowing down as Jisung gently cajoles you back to reality.

It goes by like forever, but once the pain stops, and nothing but the breathlessness is left, you look at him with wide eyes before he shouts for Felix to get another towel.

“What happened there boss?” he softly asks, making you gulp down and gasp out, “The attack,” you mutter, “It’s the same thing that killed my mother,” you painfully recall, closing your eyes before Jisung hums in acknowledgment, not pushing you further. “Boss, you wanna get out now? Some warmth would do you good,”

You nod and have him help you out of the tub, water dripping from the first towel as Felix walks in and hands you the new one, both of them leaving the bathroom with the door ajar as you dry yourself up. You’re careful to pat the wound on your thigh before looking back on the tub, realizing that there was blood coming from your nose. But the water was simply cloudy with oils and bath agents, with no trace of blood either in the water or from your nose.

You furrow your brows and take a deep inhale, trembling hands patting the towel around your body. The faster you were out of this bathroom, the better.

With paper in your hands, your footfalls echo against the mosaic tiles of the manor, desolate and lonely. You couldn’t help but have goosebumps rise over your skin as you tread the seemingly endless hallway to Chris’ office, but once you get there, you heavily pound against the heavy wood door.

Stepping back a bit, you come face to face with Changbin and his glock. “Changbin,” you greet with a slight nod of your head. He lowers his gun and guard down before bowing politely to you, opening the door wider to reveal Chris scanning through papers, desk filled to the brim with files scattered around. All the legwork he did the past week was catching up to him, and you were about to add more.

“Yes?” he mumbles, not even bothering to look up at you while signaling for Changbin to grab a chair for you. You wait for the velvet chair to be placed in front of his desk before gently smacking the papers against the file he was reading. “Jung Kwang-ho, familiar?" you question, trying to contain the residual trembles on your hands, “Yes, one of our valued assets, what about him?"

"Does his wife have a history of drug intake?"

“Not that I'm familiar with," he furrows his brows, setting the files aside, now fully facing you. "I met Jung Hyeon-ssi on exactly three occasions, and none of them seemed off,"

“Not anymore,” you nip at the corner of your lower lip, peeling off the slight excess skin with your teeth, “We talked. It's too early to say but keeping an eye on her and the Jung family isn't out of our best interest,” you mutter while averting your gaze.

He sighs, leaning back against his chair with a finger pressed to his temple, “I'll keep that in mind,” he responds, another sentence about to spill from his mouth before you get interrupted by a knock on the door. Both you and Chris turn to look before Changbin opens it and announces his presence. "Mr. Jung Yejun is here,"

In alarm, you immediately shoot out of the seat before making yourself comfortable on Chris' lap right after.

"You didn't tell me someone was coming?" you scold through grit teeth while Changbin checks any weapons on the sudden guest. "Where would be the fun in that," Christopher smiles cockily at you, resting his hand on the shy of your satin-dressed back and pulling your legs closer with the other. "Oh you dog," you whisper in disbelief before the man himself enters.

"Oh, it's a pleasure to see you here today Miss Y/N, I hope you remember me,"

"I do," you smile, the mood immediately turning 180 come face to face with the guest. "Your aunt and I are well acquainted,"

Christopher draws small patterns on your back as you speak, your position on his lap making you seem like such a clingy spouse it makes you want to throw up. "Well, what brings you here Yejun-ah," Chris moves the process forward as he clears his throat. "Reports given by my uncle, our faction is already clearing out the fields to find the missing men belonging to the Jinyoung group, sir,"

"What missing men?" Chris then sits forward, hands still encasing you but adjusting you accordingly. Deciding to just end your suffering, you slide off his legs before placing both hands on the backrest of his chair, listening intently.

"Your uncle hasn't reported any missing men yet, Yejun,"

“Haven’t you heard sir?” Jung hands over a file, your hand point blank on his arm as the sleeve rides up a bit, scales inked near his wrist. You peer over Chris’ shoulder and start scanning the files. It’s men from his faction of the city. “They’ve been gone for a while now, a few more added. I don’t know who’s responsible for this yet although my uncle is looking into it,”

Chris looks up at you, silently asking if you know these men. You subtly pat Christopher’s shoulder before he lowers the file and nods, “Thank you for your input, Mr. Jung, any more?”

“None sir,”

“Then you’re dismissed. Your information is highly appreciated,”

He nods wordlessly. Getting up, he makes a very quick exit to the office. Changbin starts checking in case he left some recording device while you take the file off Chris' hands. Flipping through the papers, you're shocked to see a few of the men from your faction of the group as well.

"I thought only the cocaine was missing?" you question him with a scowl. "So did I," he sighs, "I'll look into it tomorrow. Jung would probably call me out-site. You keep on checking tabs on his wife,"

You nod, swallowing down the lump in your throat. Something was terribly wrong.

"Here Mrs. Jung," you kindly offer her a glass of iced water, "Oh thank you so much Y/N-ssi, what a darling you are," she smiles kindly, although her pupils are dilated widely there's still a certain endearment to how she looks. "How are you finding the party so far?"

"Oh, it's nothing too different. Nothing I haven't been to," she chuckles with whimsy laced in her voice, "Although the younger men are now in charge of their groups, it is my first time seeing their wives. Such as yourself," she starts to ramble. And you gladly let her, most of the time cocaine dependants are chatty, always giving out information with such little care in the world, it was quite convenient.

"How has your husband been treating you darling?" she asks, a hand on your arm before you couldn't help but flinch at the contact a bit, making her immediately detach from you. "Oh, sorry,"

"No, it's alright," you sheepishly chuckle, "I just get jumpy at times," you explain before straightening your dress, looking for Christopher amongst the crowd, "He's been wonderful," you try to dotingly muster, "He's been nothing but accommodating and kind to me,"

"Is that so?" Hyeon smiles, "Darling…you know you could tell me anything right," she woefully lays a gentle hand on yours, sweating profusely. You try to not let your brows shoot up in surprise at the sudden opening, "Oh me? I believe I don't have anything…" you try to excuse.

"Do you…?" you question with hesitation, unsure about where the conversation was going.

"Oh I do," she openly admits, there's no reason not to. Despite the confusion coursing through your body rumors about abuse regarding you aren't so far off the roster, "I've heard things my darling. This world wasn't always made for us," she smiles down at the glass of water, "But we can make it safer. At least your generation of wives,"

You control every nerve in your body to not snap in her direction, trying to ground yourself as you feign concern, "I don't quite understand," you gulp down before she hands you a slip of paper, a phone number scribbled onto it. "If Christopher touches you, call me, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay Jung-ssi,"

"Please, call me Hyeon-unnie,"

Leaning back against your chair, you furrow down at the piece of paper wedged between your fingers. Groaning you lean back and press your lips together. You suspect something off with the Jung family–with the messy case of the inheritance and Hyeon Jung’s potential drug addiction–it wasn’t the hardest to spot. What you were ultimately on the edge about was just how involved were they with your family.

For Hyeon to question how Chris treats you, an alleged abuse going on behind closed doors–where she got that information was beyond you.

To Christopher’s credit, you and he got along well in terms of a loveless marriage– your ultimate free reign over your activities save for the occasional heiress chores you have to air out, and the respect you had for each other was a far cry from domestic abuse. Sure, the both of you were still aloof around each other, glorified housemates if anything but you knew he wouldn’t lay a hand on you.

Letting a sigh roll out your lips, a knock comes from your door before you call out to let themselves in, "Felix," you tiredly smile at him, "Great timing I was about to call you,"

“Well I have a bit of bad news boss," he steps up in front of your desk, "What do you need?"

"Give me a background check on Jung Hyeon,"

“Sure,” he nods, “Here boss, the bad news," he hands you a folder. You thank him before he retreats from your office.

Opening the folder, you immediately see photographs of a tattoo, serpentine in shape and scaly, a mamba of sorts. You turn the picture and see a name tagged to it, one of the men slain in the assault yesterday. Flipping through the pages is the same variant of the tattoo, clothed and unclothed.

You have a sense you’ve seen it before.

Keeping up with the reading, the status of their factions are still unknown but there was a certain group they fell under. It didn’t take a genius–they were all part of the Jung family. Guards and marksmen.

A sense of dread spills into your stomach, and you immediately scramble to reach out for your phone, contacting Hyunjin who answers in two rings, “Miss Boss?”

“Where is Chris?” you ask with urgency. “He took Minho-hyungnim with him, they’re on their way to Daego-do, last time he updated had to get gas. If you need anything Changbin is also there,”

“What exactly are they gonna do in Daego-do,”

“Check out the missing men case Jung-ssi presented yesterday,” was all you had to hear before hanging up abruptly.

“Fuck,” you spit out.

Running past Jisung and Changbin, you hot-foot it to the garage, grabbing your gun and keys. The pair look at each other and hurriedly follow, grabbing car keys no questions asked. You snatch your helmet out of the garage stands before putting it on hurriedly, the key already starting in the ignition while you tuck your gun in the holster on your leg. You mount your motorbike and rev up the engine while Jisung scrambles to start the car.

You immediately take off, smoke filling the garage. You speed out of the estate as fast as you can, time and a life on the line because Hyeon’s voice doesn’t stop–playing over and over again like a broken record. The verbalization of the realization catches up a bit late, through grit teeth and the wind pressure ahead of you, ‘Jung Kwang-ho is gonna ambush Chris,’ You weren’t a hundred percent sure, but your intuitions never failed you.

Your eyes are zeroed in on the road, speeding and weaving through cars as they honk at you violently. Seoul traffic wasn’t that bad for a 2 PM rush but fuck, were you tempted to hit the very end of that speed meter. You increase the speed drastically, tilting the bike back a bit before fully speeding off into the highway. Chris left 10 minutes ago, he couldn’t have made it that far yet, from what you knew Minho was a cautious driver, not even risking to speed up on the freeway beyond its limit.

You could catch up, you had to.

You squint your eyes to try and see further, trying to spot a black GMC but so far it was futile. Unless Hyunjin was wrong there was only one South Highway in the entirety of Seoul City. You lean forward, pushing the limits of the bike as it shoots off, gradually getting faster before a relieved gasp escapes you, seeing Chris’ car approaching a tunnel.

The panic in your system spikes, already seeing how many ways this could go wrong. So with a final boost of speed, you get close enough to the tail of the car, slowing down as you feel for your gun plastered to your side before pointing it at the wheel behind.

Then a gunshot goes off, narrowly missing you as you curse, motorbike wobbling a bit. You grit your teeth and speed up to the side of the car, trying to match its speed before targeting the front right wheel. The car’s brakes screech against your ears painfully, making it careen off to the side only to be stopped by the railings along the highway, smashing against the front of the car. You immediately step on the brakes of the motorbike, swerving it to the side before r immediately pointing your gun at the invisible gunman.

You squint and take two chance shots, a yelp immediately coming from the foliage atop the wall before a man crashes down the concrete, helmet emitting a crack sound as you see his leg shot.

You look back hurriedly, seeing Jisung and Changbin try to catch up from the other side of the highway. You rush to Chris’ car, seeing the airbags activated before the door slams open, a gaping wound on Christopher's forehead, and a limp to his gait while holding his side, "What the fuck was that!" he yells as if he isn't in pain. You stand your ground and frown,"I'll explain later, help me get Minho out of the car," you push past him before rushing to the driver's side. Your own car stops, the doors flying open quickly “Fuck, boss what did you do!” Jisung curses as he gets out but you immediately signal to the dead man down on the highway.

“Get rid of the body quick, they probably retreated,” you look into the dark tunnel before you, “But this means war,”

Final disclaimer! This is not entirely accurate and is fabricated for the sake of storytelling. This is a work of pure fiction and does not represent any real-life people, events, or places.

> next part

> moodboard; sampler 1 | sampler 2

#skz #skz scenarios #skz bang chan #mafia bang chan #bang chan x reader #bang chan smut #bang chan #stray kids bang chan #skz chan #stray kids #skz chan imagines #chan x reader #bang chan x you #mafia au #elle☆walls could talk

284 notes · View notes

satorhime · 2 years

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˚‧ ✰ ˓ ˖ SECRET-GO-ROUND | ˚｡ nanami kento x female reader ᨀ minors do not interact˓˓WORD COUNT ᨀ 7.8k˓˓ furueru kuchibiru!retelling, college!au, professor!nanami, uni student!reader, bratty!reader, age gap (nanami is in mid/late 30s, reader is in 20s), teacher-student relationships, carnival dates, a sprinkle of fluff 'n' angst, public sex, unprotected sex, blowjobs, exhibitionism, praise kink, quickie on a ferris wheel, creampies, money shots, sensei kink, anal play, fingering, degradation + reader is a lil manipulative. @SYNOPSIS ᨀ kento is in a secret relationship with his student, but when he loses a bet to her, he has to take her on their first date in public. @SATORHIME SAID ᨀ this is my first long fic since the spring and i'm so excited for u to read it !! (/ε＼*) i hope u babies enjoy this nasty lil piece i cooked up in my candy store MWAH !!

nanami kento is a hypocrite.

he demands professionalism and punctuality from his students and he does not believe in making mistakes that can be avoided in life. his entire day would be ruined if he walked down a sidewalk and stepped in chewing gum when he could have taken the train, yet he detests tardiness. he grimaces at late assignments, typos in emails, and clucks his tongue at mispronounced words during oral presentations, even though, out of every faculty member and student at the university, he may be the one making the biggest mistake of them all.

it's surprising because nanami conforms to the standard. he studied law because he respected the structure of rules and resonated with upholding order and justice. he takes the moral high ground above his immature colleagues who refuse to grow up even though they're well past the age of thirty. much to nanami's delight, they stopped inviting him out on weekends because he couldn't stop sneering in disgust at their conversation, threatening to report toji, satoru, and suguru after they attempted to coax him into their long running competition of letting their good looks and expensive doctorates seduce starry-eyed students into fucking them for sport; tallying up each other's scores from their game like athletes every monday morning.

but yes, nanami kento is still a hypocrite.

because he is the only one with a student walking around his apartment half-naked right now.

of course, nanami knows better than that. he barely dated through his long years of school, too focused on hanging up degree after degree in his parents’ living room to have time for anything more than a couple of flings and failed dates. and now four years into his tenure, a brilliant professor with a heap of accolades under his designer belt, he fell in love with you, his pretty little student.

he doesn’t know how it happened when the two of you are complete opposites— nanami is a jaded homebody that rejects human interaction and you are a firecracker full of energy in constant need of his attention. it wasn't even supposed to happen, but it's been a downward spiral of forbidden feelings since that one fucking evening you stayed behind after class to discuss your law research paper with him. you'd ended up hitting it off— you found nanami handsome, confident, and easy to talk to. confiding in him about your worries over getting good grades and making your family proud, and somehow that conversation ended with you being fucked over his desk for the first time. in truth, he had expected you to have your fill of a fantasy you wanted to play out and skip onto the next after that, but you didn’t seem to care about any of the other boys who looked at you around campus.

instead, you were satisfied with wriggling your way into his heart, one swish of your plush hips at a time.

you’ve wriggled your way into his home as well, peeking your head curiously into his bedroom now. you find nanami still asleep on his back— his legs tangled in the bamboo sheets and one muscled arm thrown across his handsome features, shielding his eyes from the light beams. your eyes rove over his shirtless form, the morning sun illuminating the chiseled grooves of his toned abs— catching onto the fine dusting of golden hairs over his adonis belt. though he ignores the silly effect he has on you and the other students, your professor is easily the most beautiful man on campus and you could stare at him all day.

but not right now. a pout shapes your lips in disappointment because you rarely see nanami anymore. he’s busier than ever now between classes starting back up at the university, the cases he handles at the firm, and writing his faculty book. today is the first day he’s been free in almost a month, and he plans on sleeping the entire day away? that won’t do.

you tiptoe into the room, crawling onto the pillowy mattress to straddle nanami’s narrow hips. the warm weight rouses him, but his eyes remained shut, a soft groan rumbling behind his ribcage.

“it’s too early for you to be in my lap, little love,” his voice is rough and syrupy with sleep, making you suck your bottom lip into your mouth at the sound of it— but you’re determined not to let his attractiveness ruin your plan for the day. “come on, get off.”

“well, it’s too late for you to still be in bed, damn it,” you huff, peeling his arm away from his face to cup his cheeks. you watch as horizontal lines appear in his forehead, and you hurry to continue, “today is your day off, kento-sensei. i was thinking.. maybe- let’s go out on a date!”

nanami’s café au lait eyes flicker open with a speed that startles you, fixed on your pretty face. you’re wearing his shirt and there’s a pillow mark on your cheek, hair messy from sleep. he feels his chest cave in because there’s nothing he wants more than to take you out to see the world and share your beauty with it. instead, a weary sigh exhales from his nostrils and it sounds like a declination.

“you’re going to say no, aren’t you?”

“yes, you know that we cannot be seen together. what will you do if someone recognizes one of us?”

“we’re a couple, aren’t we? why are you always so worried about someone seeing us. c’mon, kento-sensei- i want to go to the carnival that's in town. we can even wear disguises!” you try reasoning with him melodramatically, but kento simply shakes his head at your antics.

“i’m sorry, love, but there is too much at stake, for the both of us,” nanami says, squeezing your hip in apology. you frown— you hate being coddled by him.

“too much at stake? like your tenure? is that really the most important thing to you?”

“i won’t have this conversation again,” he clips sternly, propping his torso up on one elbow to narrow his sharp eyes at you. “when your classmates start rumors about you fucking me for extra credit, will going out on a date really be worth that? i’m thinking about your reputation, not mine.”

“i don’t want you to think of my reputation, i want you to treat me like your woman,” you roll your eyes. it’s always the same argument. while nanami is content to hide your relationship in shaded alcoves and apartments with the curtains drawn, you want to love him openly. to run errands with him and sit in sunny windows at cute little cafés with him— to not have to lie at sleepovers with your friends when they ask who is the one who is making you so happy.

nanami’s silence is degrading, frustration simmering up in your chest. a deeper frown twists your features as you reach for a fluffy feather pillow, gripping both ends and swinging it down— aiming right for nanami’s head.

he knocks the pillow away easily, unamused. “what are you, an infant?”

“argh, you’re so annoying. fine then, have it your way!” you grumble, but then your big doe eyes glint mischievousness in them. nanami can only watch with a lifted brow as you reach for the buttons of your (his) shirt, unbuttoning them quickly with trembling hands. your heart picks up to thump excitedly as you slip one side of the shirt apart, letting the fabric pool in the crook of your elbow— revealing pebbled nipples to your professor’s confused eyes. you gently cup one of your breasts teasingly, a minx. “let’s do it this way instead.”

“and what way is that? are you trying to bribe me, young lady?” he snorts, but his eyes flicker down to the soft swell of your breasts, the knot in his throat bobbing as he swallows.

you nibble your lip as you sit on your knees between his legs to paw the sheets covering his hips out of the way.

“obviously my bribery’s working since you’re already hard,” you tease in a saccharinely sweet voice. kento prefers sleeping in expensive silks with nothing underneath so your eyes are immediately drawn to the very visible print of his erection. you cup the bulge of his cock gently, palming it against your hand— little cunt pulsing greedily as you feel it twitch under your touch, nanami hissing under his breath.

the pit of his stomach lurches traitorously because he knows what your mushy little brain is up to— whenever he refuses to let you get your way, you’ll be reaching to hold his cock in your hand as if it is a genie that can grant all of your wishes.

one of these days, you will drive him insane.

especially when you’re humming sweetly as if you're folding laundry, hooking your thumbs under the waistband of his pajamas and tugging them down to his ankles. the heavy strain of his cock plops against his abdomen. you grab for it, marveling at how tiny your hand looks compared to it. honestly, nanami’s cock is just so fucking pretty to you that you long to tell all of your girlfriends about it— thick and weighty, a little darker than his body with a dusky tip that leaks so much. maybe you would leave out the detail that without proper preparation, his cock stretches you out painfully. tears and snot and limps in your walk whenever he fucks you.

“oh, it’s leaking,” you simper breathlessly, throat running dry.

“don’t be crass,” he scolds, but you ignore him to stare in wonderment at the way the bulbous head is drooling precum in a steady trickle, smearing over your hand as your thumb rubs against a thick vein. you go slippery, wet between the thighs at the thought of sucking it into your mouth, basking in the way his hips give a little jolt as you touch him. but other than that, he regards you with a flat look. “so what are you planning, hmm? tell me.”

“i want to make a bet with you,” you lower your face until you’re level with his crotch, opening up and lolling your cherry tongue out invitingly. nanami inhales a serrated breath as your soft lips sucks the tip of his cock into your little mouth, sampling his taste.

“how about this?” you continue, fluttering your lashes as you breathe in the masculine scent of his cock. he tastes good, sweet precum bursting over your tastebuds as you pause to swipe your tongue into the slit. you can't even wait, suckling down on the tip greedily, pausing between licks to speak. “if you can keep yourself from cumming until.. eleven ‘o clock then i’ll drop the idea of going on a date, but if you can’t… you have to take me to the street carnival. pretty please?”

he pauses to think about it for the longest, and you roll your eyes, scraping your teeth ever so lightly against the underside of his length to bring his attention back to you, earning a dirty look in reward.

“i’m offended you think i’ll lose,” he snorts, but the way his hips kick as you kitten lick over the slit of his tip makes you smile. you're already winning. “i’m an adult, little darling. i know how to control myself.”

“oh yeah?” you coo, challenging him by tilting your head down with an open mouth, warm and wet on the wide girth of nanami’s cock— drawing him in against hollowed cheeks, lathering him down in saliva that smells like mint and morning coffee. you reel back, hard on the pull up before slurping him back down in a slow mouth fuck.

he tosses his head back with a deep huff from his nostrils, hand twitching on the bed. sometimes you hate how quiet nanami is. on some nights, after he is forced to watch boys flirt with you around campus while you’re dressed in tiny little shorts and slutty little skirts, he’ll toss you on his mattress and fuck filthy lies into you about sitting you on his cock in front of all 40 students in his course and claiming you as his girl, growling in your ear until you’re splashing his sheets with cum and crying into his shoulder because you want it so bad. but during times when you’re being bratty, he never rewards your bad behavior with the praise you work on your knees for.

you briefly glance at the clock on the nightstand.

10:32 AM

“gonna cum yet, nanami-sensei?” you tease on the release, his cock slipping out of your mouth with a wet pop, glistening in your spit. you smile up at him with precum on your teeth, blinking coquettishly as you let his cock plop against his abdomen, flattening your tongue to lick long stripes up and down the length of his cock. “it’s okay if you want to let go of it, i’ll catch every last drop of your cum.”

“i’m not going to fucking cum,” nanami snaps, gritting his jaw. his eyes are narrowed and though he looks unimpressed and obstinate, he frays at the seams. “are you so hungry that you’ll eat my cum? stop this childishness and i’ll make you breakfast then.”

“mm-! that won’t work,” you giggle at his weak attempt, before sinking your mouth back down on his cock, nose buried in the sandy hairs around the base. digging your fingernails into the olive skin at his thighs when the tip of his cock bumps against your fleshy throat, gagging around him as you struggle to swallow around the thickness lodged in your throat. mouth too small to accommodate the size of his fat girth. your cheeks are so cute, too— chubby with the strain, but you’re determined, even as thick precum drools down the back of your tongue and you choke, gurgling and flexing your tongue to greedily swallow it down.

he’s always sensitive in the morning, waking up with his stiff erection pressed shamefully between your ass cheeks so you know exactly how to work him, a sweltering suction around his leaking cock. burning hot pleasure right into the pit of his gut. his fingers fist in the sheets and he looks so fucking ruined in the morning sun with his jaw slacked, neck blotchy and bursting with veins from the strain of holding off his grunts of pleasure— holding off his cum too. “j-jesus fuck, love. that’s it-”

this time, nanami is the one desperately searching for the red glare of the alarm clock, eyes wildly reading the numbers.

10:47 AM

thirteen minutes left. if he can just—

“don’t pretend you don’t feel good, kento-sensei,” you giggle as you reel back to breathe, swirling your tongue over the tip of his sticky cock. he grunts, his hips jolting desperately. “i know all of your weak spots, after all.”

the law professor bristles, panting as he glares down at you.

“don’t look at me like that… i just wanna make you feel good,” your aggressiveness isn't new to him. though usually you’re gooey in the head, on your back with legs splayed, letting him do whatever he wants to you— there are times like right now when you’re dipping further down to suck on his balls, weighty and full with cum, sending nanami’s hips into a frenzy. his hard cock slaps against your forehead as his hips jerk up, but you wrap your hand around it— pumping him quickly.

“fuck, i…”

“duh-oh, i’m running oush of time,” you mumble as you suck greedily on one of his balls, watching the clock.

10:57 AM

“what are you-”

“you liked it when i did this, right sensei?” you hum, melodic voice like a siren on a shipwrecked shore, luring him in. devilish mouth smiling sweet as you’re committing sin, lowering further to play your dirty tricks on him— spreading one of nanami’s ass cheeks apart to swirl your tongue around the rim of his hole at the same time you squeeze his cock painfully.

“d-don’t, darling. fuck… you’re going to make me-”

his reaction is immediate, a big fist twisting in your hair to shove your head away from him but it’s too late. above you, nanami punches out a grunt that sounds ruined, the spongy wetness of your tongue teasing at his puckered hole combined with your firm hand pumping his cock in a steady rhythm is too much. he loses the bet with the back of his head shoved into the pillow, thighs twitching from the shocks of pleasure as long ropes of cum splashes onto your face in white strings, dripping wet down your cheeks.

when he shoves your head away, you sit back on your heels— beaming up at him with the prettiest smile of triumph, covered in his cum.

“that’s that,” you tease, “should i wear my white or pink dress?”

“we’re only staying for a short while,” nanami announces with an exasperated sigh, even as he fastens the neon pink unlimited rides! armband around your wrist. when he finishes, you beam and hook your hand into the crook of his arm— scoping out the attractions. “where do you want to go first?”

the last day of the traveling carnival is crowded. an annual late summer tradition in your city, it never fails to draw out the numbers on weekends. lovesick couples share kisses, dining on overpriced treats. exhausted families push around strollers with wailing babies inside of them while teenagers shove each other in the queues for thrill rides, pop music blasting through the speakers. it’s a risk, the kind of location nanami would have avoided for a first official date with his student, for fuck’s sake, but he hates seeing your looks of disappointment.

he much prefers the way you look right now— drunk on the scent of buttery popcorn and sugary cotton candy— a devastating figment of his dreams, dressed in a little white chiffon sundress that whirls around your thighs with each movement. your eyes twinkling in glee behind the shades perched on your nose at the colorful tents, fast rides, and rows of sideshows.

“let’s try out one of the sideshows first?” you suggest, pointing excitedly to the striped canopy stalls lined up on one row of the carnival, adorable prizes sitting on shelves behind carnies enticing passersby to try their luck at strength tests, shooting games, hook-a-duck and skeeball for cheap prices. “you could use a win after this morning.”

“does that mouth of yours ever know how to be quiet?” nanami wonders wearily, pinching the bridge of his nose out of habit as rosy flush creeps above the collar of his shirt. “lead the way if you’re finished making fun of me.”

rolling your eyes, you tug him by the arm over to a shooting range. colorful balloons line up in many neat rows. the carnie behind the stall brightens up at new victims, his smile missing several teeth as he gestures to the game— holding up a handful of sharp darts in invitation.

“good evenin’, good evenin’ to the lovely couple! interested in trying your luck in pop-a-balloon? all ya hafta do is aim and throw. hitting five red ones in a row wins the largest prizes,” he markets, “yer fella looks like he’s got a good arm on ‘em too. whaddya say?”

“it’s an obvious scam they’re running. the red ones are the smallest,” kento points out under his breath, but you shoot a glare at him, nudging him forward. he sighs, reaching into the back pocket of his shorts to retrieve his wallet, slapping a crisp ten on the wooden counter. “fine.”

“good choice! take these darts ‘n’ give it yer best shot, buddy,” the carnie pockets the bill, handing the darts to nanami and stepping safely out of the way.

“alright, which one do you want, darling?”

“the big one,” you grin.

“of course you do,” the male purses his lips, folding up the sleeves of his shirt before he takes the darts. it’s attractive the way his forehead creases, concentration narrowing his eyes behind his green tinted sunglasses. he knows games like this are rigged, but that doesn’t stop him from carefully analyzing the balloons because you want the prize and he’ll do anything for you. it’s easy math, calculating the distance between his stance and the target wall— stretching a visual line across the tiny red balloons.

the first dart strikes out, bursting the balloon with a startling pop. you clap your hands happily in support, a greedy pang of want twinging in your lower belly as you watch his biceps ripple with the movement as the rest of the balloons bursts easily until he's out of darts— game over.

“congrats, man, y’ didn’t embarrass yer girl,” the carnie jokes, but you can tell he isn’t happy about the quick and easy win. “which one d’ you want, miss? top’s yours to choose from.”

“that one,” your eyes sparkle, pointing to the large pompompurin prize in that adorable little suit. you’re handed the fat plush that dwarfs your frame, squeezing it to your body in delight. “it looks like you, nanamin!”

“oh? should i be worried about the competition?”

“please, no one can ever replace you.”

you say it with a teasing smile, but nanami hates the way his heart stutters, even as his mind screams that he isn’t supposed to be here with you, entertaining your girlish affections, in love with you beyond repair.

but as the sun relaxes the sky into a dreamsicle orange, so does the weight on nanami’s shoulders. he still keeps his eyes sharp for familiar bodies, but he finds it harder to resist your energy— letting you take his hand to drag him around the rest of the carnival grounds to various attractions. spending his money on sticky cotton candy, powdery funnel cake and customized couple items. forcing him to accompany you on your favorite rides, too— rollercoasters and carousels and tilt-a-whirls until the two of you are dizzy and windswept.

“you looked relaxed,” you hum over the noise of thrill ride chains clanking together and carefree laughter in the background, tucked comfortably under kento’s arm as the two of you wait behind three other couples in the queue for the ferris wheel— your favorite and final stop before the date finally ends.

“i don’t have to work today,” he replies dryly, but his thin lips quirk up as if he wants to smile.

“that’s the only reason? ken, you’re so boring.”

you really have a terrible habit of not letting him finish his sentences, he thinks.

“wah, i wish we could do this everyday!” you cheer, cuddled up against nanami’s warm side as the ferris wheel begins to move, ascending higher into the sky as the large capsules sway in the breeze calmly.

nanami simply nods in reply as he stares out of the window of the enclosed gondola, the giant pompompurin he won for you balanced comically on one of his knees. the view is breathtaking from up here. people strolling around the carnival grow smaller, the winking lights on top of the tents nothing more than tiny fireflies in the late summer night from this height. so high above the world who would judge you, it’s easy to forget decorum and feel like a normal couple.

it even has kento completely at ease, sighing peacefully and believing that nothing could ruin the peaceful moment of bliss between the two of you up here—

until the ride jeers and jolts to a hard stop, swinging the capsules violently.

you hear a crackling noise from the speaker attached to one of the beams.

“attention all ride passengers!” the teenager operating the ride speaks into the staticky intercom with mildly contained panic. “we’re experiencing a malfunction and will have the ride working after a short while. please remain seated and do not open your capsule door. thank you!”

“just grand,” nanami purses his lips in disapproval before his eyes slide over to you, reaching over to draw you closer. “are you alright?”

but where he expects to be met with your apprehension, your answering smile is a twinkling constellation of giddiness and opportunity. after all, how could you be afraid when you’re stuck at the top of the world with the most attractive man born into it? looking at him right now means thinking of nothing else anyway. he looks good out of a suit with the outdoors on him— hair mussed up and sweat staining his pristine white linen shirt. you think about earlier today when you whined at him about lacking romance until he agreed to eat cotton candy from your fingertips, melted sugar crusted against your digits as nanami licked and suckled obscenely on purpose until your panties were embarrassingly damp.

knowing this date out in the open with him will likely be your last, you plan on making the best of it until the very end.

“h-hey, sensei?” you call for him, warmth blooming over your cheeks at the sudden idea pushing to the forefront of your mind.

“mhm?”

“didn’t seeing me in this pretty dress today make you want to fuck me?”

“don’t flatter yourself, darling,” he replies flippantly, but you don’t miss the sharp intake of breath that rattles through the quiet gondola that betrays his answer. you looked like an angel of sin the entire day in your little white dress. how many times did that fucking hem flutter above your thighs in the wind as you carelessly bounced around, giving him a flash of your cotton panties? how many times did he have to yank it down before another man got a look at his girl— “i hardly noticed it.”

“i could show you now,” you hum softly, never satiated. you rest your chin on his shoulder, fingers playing along the top of his thigh. “you could fuck me right here and no one would know. we’ll be here for a while…”

“you force me to come on this date with you during my day off, now you want sex too? you’ve been hanging around frat boys too much,” he deadpans, but his cock twitches in traitorous interest against his inner thigh at your nasty little proposition. it’s hardly appropriate and he shouldn’t allow you to crawl onto your knees and plop right into his lap, but nanami can never find the willpower to deny you whenever you desire something that he can provide. “need i remind you that we’re in public? what are you-”

“don’t be mean to me, sensei. i didn’t get to cum this morning, you know,” you whine childishly with a blubbery pout to goad him. you’ve always been insatiable and greedy, the simple thought of being stuck at the top of a ferris wheel with nothing else to do but wait to be rescued swirling a lusted ache into your cunt for him, needy and pulsing.

“if we would’ve stayed home per my suggestion, i would’ve taken care of this here,” he tuts, his voice clipped and hard as he gestures to the way you’re already squirming against his thigh. “you just can’t wait for me, can you? even after class, you always have to sit on my cock before we get home. what am i going to do with you?”

“i-i can’t help it,” you bundle the hem of your dress against your hips as you lean back, the center of your panties soaked and sticky wet between your puffy lips. he can’t see the damp patch waiting there for him, but he can feel it. wetting the cloth of his shorts down where you squirm and wriggle. the lights on the beams of the ferris wheel rotate into the gondola, flashing neon rainbows across your and nanami’s features in the quiet dark, allowing you to see the way his honey brown eyes darken to black.

“stop thinking so much for once and pass the time with me,” you continue, purring the words against his neck. you move closer, your breasts pressed up against the damp linen of his shirt as you run your tongue over the sharp cut of his jawline, inhaling the spicy scent of his sweat and tom ford aftershave. your next move is the last bit of convincing he needs, fingers slipping between the gap of your bodies to palm the fat line of his growing erection. “y-you’ll fuck me, right nanami?”

nanami grits his teeth as he feels his cock thicken in arousal, staving off a groan. his fingertips itch with the desire to touch you. he doesn’t know what has the biggest affect on him right now— the high altitude, the memory of your cute little throat struggling to swallow around him first thing in the morning, or just you in general. wearing a sundress shorter than some of his work shirts and begging him to fuck you on a ferris wheel.

“come here, pretty little thing,” nanami murmurs huskily, squishing his big fingers into your soft cheeks to draw your lips to his for a kiss. he never fails to make stars bust behind your eyelids when he touches you— bold and bratty until you’ve gotten your way and he’s in the lead, letting you squirm on his lap. your cunt gushes at the kiss alone, warm and wet and forbidden as nanami tongues over your bottom lip— sucking it into his mouth, kissing you to a swell until you open for him obediently and he’s fully in control. searing licks of his tongue as he explores you.

the kiss is sloppy, just how you like it. challenging a clean-cut man like nanami who lives by the book into swallowing your soft whines and moans, into swapping strings of bubbly spit that tastes like cotton candy and caramel apples.

“you’re so messy, even in public,” he chides, breaking the kiss to give you room to breathe but you chase it, nipping his upper lip with your teeth hard, nanami grunting low in his chest before you soothe the sting with your tongue. he pinches your chin between his fingers, twisting your head to the side to redirect his mouth to your neck. he knows better, but you cloud his judgment— murk up the waters of his mind as he fastens his lips onto a spot against your neck, suckling at the skin until the capillaries burst and his mark blooms slow.

“o-oh-”

“you’re even messier down here, aren’t you? filthy girl, how long have you been this wet?” he groans lecherously, fitting a hand between your spread legs and his thigh so he can twist the front of your ruined cotton panties against his fist, drawing them upwards so the damp fabric wedges painfully against the seam of your unused cunt.

“that h-hurts, ken,” you whine, but it whispers off into a blissful sigh as nanami shifts the fabric, rubbing raw against your slit. with his free hand, he tugs the sweetheart neckline of your dress to press wet kisses over your chest with a hum.

“i’ve got you, darling. i’ll take care of it- make it all better,” he promises, and just as he’s about to jerk your panties to the side and put his fingers on your pussy, the intercom crackles in a tinny screech—

the two of you startle, chests heaving breathlessly and hearts thumping tandemly in erratic rhythms.

“attention all ride passengers,” the voice is unfamiliar, clearing their throats before continuing, “the ride will be back in working condition in an estimate of thirty minutes. thank you for your patience and we apologize for the inconvenience.”

thirty minutes.

“n-nanami-sensei, h-hurry up! please, before-” you whisper out in a frantic breath, fumbling for the loops of his belt to unbuckle it.

“hush, i promised i would take care of it,” he grunts, as unhurried as ever as he swoops his head down and fastens his lips around your nipple over the material of your sundress, suckling the bud until he feels it peak against his tongue, until the fabric is soaked in his spit and your pussy clenches hungrily in need. he nibbles at the bud, torturing you— pinching it between his teeth, bringing irritated tears to your eyes at the little twinges of pain. “alright now. i want you to take my cock out and rub it through your messy little slit, can you do that for me?”

“can i sit on it?” you flutter your glistening eyelashes at him as he reels back, leaning against the bench of the capsule, letting you twiddle the buttons of his shirt apart first— revealing golden skin and the ripples of his washboard abs before you continue, sliding the zipper down on his shorts. kento’s cock is fully hard when you draw it against your palm, warm and twitching when you squeeze it experimentally.

“what did i teach you? haste is the enemy of quality.”

“god, y… you’re so annoying,” the gondola is too dark to see, but you know what it looks like from memory alone. his cock bounces between the two of you, slapping against your belly button, the mushroom tip leaking foggy droplets down the thick shaft. your tongue feels like cotton in your mouth as you wrap your fingers around it firmly, spreading tacky precum as you pump him slowly.

he tugs your panties to one side as you lift up just a little, letting nanami’s cock bend along the line of his thigh— long and hard under your ass when you sit down against it. he knows that the two of you are running out of time; he can’t tease you like he does at home or in his office after hours, boring you with philosophical quotes or quizzing you with topics you don’t pay attention to in his class and forcing you to sit on his cock for hours when you answer incorrectly. drool floods your mouth at the delicious friction as you hump your pussy over his cock desperately, wetting him down in strings of slick; your puffy clit rubbing against the flared head, but it's not enough.

“n-nanami-sensei, c-c’mon, this isn’t fair-” you pant into the crook of his neck, oversensitive and strung out, swiveling your hips in a slow circle, grinding your clit down hard until it feels sore.

“what isn’t fair, little darling?” nanami chuckles in amusement, but he sounds like ruination, voice gravel on stone. he slips the straps of your sundress from your shoulders to press kisses to your heated skin. he forces the fabric down further, just until one of your nipples are exposed and he can wrap his lips around the bare skin, suckling it against his tongue. he drags his cock away from your folds, slapping it hard against the coarse curls at your mound. “you think i'm unfair because you want my cock inside you around all of these people and i won't give it to you? when will you ever learn propriety, hmm?”

“n-not ‘til you fuck it into me, kento-sensei,” is your petulant response, gripping the skirt of your sundress dress until the skin of your knuckles feel taut. it’s unfair that he makes fun of how much you want him, it's unfair that he has all of that cock but he won't let you fuck yourself on it, it's unfair but you let it happen— wriggling in anticipation, letting him slap the tip of his cock against your clit and tease you out as you moan for it dumbly. “wanna sit on it your cock so i can learn something!”

“why do you think you deserve it?”

the effect he has on you is dangerous. maybe you’re naïve and reckless with your heart, the dewy-eyed college girl helplessly in love with her professor— but no one has ever made you feel the way that he does, not the shitty frat boys or snobby trust fund babies that chase your cute smile and pretty skirts at parties and in hallways. while he thinks you’re using him to fulfill a fantasy, you’re simply unable to convey your feelings into actual words. it’s more than just wanting to fuck him because you’re good at it and it feels good. instead, it’s because when his cock is stretching you out, the two of you joined in the most intimate way possible, it’s forbidden words left unsaid. you deserve him because you lo—

“buh-..’cause you always gimme what i want?” is how you choose to respond instead.

“incorrect answer as always, brat,” he scolds, reaching around to deliver a punishing slap to your ass, making you cough out a yelp. “sit on me, even though you don’t deserve it.”

oh.

you glance out of the window behind kento’s head. it’s too dark to see inside of the other stranded gondolas below you, but you wonder if they can see you. if the other couples are watching as you lean up on sore knees, smearing his precum along your folds as his cock swipes through your slit until the fat head catches on your entrance and you hear him hiss.

your heart thuds painfully against your ribs, the familiar feeling of delicious fear at the sheer size of your professor’s cock setting an ache in your belly. you widen your thighs, your knees scratching against the rough material of the bench as you reach down to spread one of side of your folds apart, opening yourself for him. but as you plan to sink down slowly, carefully, the ferris wheel suddenly rocks, spearing you down too fucking quick on the blunt head of his cock—

“w-wait, k-kento-sensei-!” your abrupt shriek rings out in the silence as you scramble desperately to wrap your arms around his neck for support. glassy tears spring hot to the corner of your eyes, the stretch making your sore cunt flutter around him tight and desperate as your knees try to snap shut against his hips uselessly. you try to hold yourself from sliding down on him any further until you're ready for it, but you’re so fucking wet that your pussy greedily sucks in the rest of his inches and your thighs give up against the strain, weight forcing you down to sit flush against his lap— jutting his cock up against your womb with a deep twinge.

“take it easy, darling girl,” he bites out behind clenched teeth as his head tosses back against the window, his groan vibrating against your bodies. fingers digging deep into the soft skin of your hips at the intrusion, the sensation of your pussy sinking down on his cock is too much— breaking him out into a cold sweat, feverish. you're so small, tightening around him until he feels like choking. his calloused hand tries to rub soothingly over the soft dimples of your lower back, but he’s just as fucked out as you.

“i-i can’t-!” you cry out, trembling in his arms and clinging to him hopelessly, snot bubbling in your nose and mascara staining your cheeks. you shift experimentally and you feel your stomach lurch with a wet gasp punching from your lips, but there’s no real time to get used to the stretch of his cock inside of you and you know it— not when the mechanics are close to fixing up the broken ride. “n-nanami-”

“you can do it, love,” he coos, kissing the temple of your sweaty forehead with the tender care you deserve for trying to accommodate his fat girth. he rewards you by fanning his hand over your belly, thumb dropping upside down to rub through your folds, fucking it over your swollen clit in squishy circles. “show me how well this pussy can take me.”

you nod dumbly, the pleasure singeing your nerves raw as you shakily lift out of his lap before sinking again, his cock disappearing against your gummy walls with a thick push that squelches lewdly on the draw in. it’s overwhelming and so fucking good, your hand slapping against the window behind his head for leverage— leaving a print in the condensation. “eugh- f-fuck, kento-”

there’s a different kind of stroke to a cock when you’re not allowed to have it. sweet punishment for your sins because you aren’t supposed to be here with your professor, fucking him at all, let alone in public. forced to settle for short, deep drops of your hips instead of bouncing high and spreading it out— keeping him snug against your cervix in order not to rock the capsule too much. it’s messy and your cunt loves it, slick spreading along your thighs, gushing down the length of nanami’s cock.

“ah, look at you. you love this, don’t you? you wish someone would see. it’s like you want to get caught so everyone will know who this cunt makes the sweetest sounds for,” nanami rasps out, thumbing your clit faster now, leaving his fingerprints under the hood of the sore nub. he widens his stance, spreading his feet apart to force you to sink deeper into his lap— hard jostles, your ass cheeks slapping down lewdly against his balls. your back arches so prettily for him that he can’t help but grasp one of your tits into his hand, bringing it to his mouth to taste the salty skin on his tongue.

“i-i love it-! i love it s’much, kento-sensei. love you s‘much-!” you sob loudly, burning with the affection his cock fucks against your nerves. you’re drunk on the pleasure, too much dopamine twinkling in your brain to realize the weight of your confession, but kento does. heart sputtering and swells inside his chest cavity because you sound like you mean it— cock thickening inside of you.

“fuck- fucking love you too, my darling girl.”

the desperate rhythm of your fucking upsets the gondola, rocking it slightly, and kento loses ground— his teeth catching your nipple in a pinch that makes you fuck down on him harder. the pain combined with the pleasure of his cock dragging in and out of your cunt dizzyingly sweet. he soothes over the sting with a gentle suck of his mouth and you squirm with a whine, gushing around him even more, your sticky cream foaming around the base of his cock in a squishy ring that aids your slide.

“we are terribly sorry for the inconvenience, folks. the ride appears to be fully operational now and we will begin unloading passengers now!”

the intercom announces loudly as the engine of the ride cranks up on the ground, the flashing lights shining into the gondola once again. you don’t even pay attention to the bright beams, eyes rolled back and and head too full of cum to notice so kento quickly clamps his hand over the back of your head and forces it down against his shoulder to hide your silhouette in the window.

“no- don’t wan’ get off yet. i-i’m so close… wanna cum on your cock so bad!”

“what are you going to do if we reach the bottom of the ferris wheel doing this?” he pants, his hands pressing searing bruises into the curve of your hips as he lifts you effortlessly up and down his cock, breaching your soaked cunt with powerful, deep fucks that leaves you ruined.

“a-are you scared of getting caught, nanami-sensei?” you whine, shifting against his strong hold, drooling against his shoulder as you moan loudly. nanami answers by bucking his hips off the bench hard, letting the devastating drops of your hips be met with hard snaps of his own.

“hush, filthy girl. you’re so fucking loud,” he hisses, his hand leaving your hip to stuff three fingers into your mouth, clacking against your teeth with the movement. “suck them or do you want someone to hear us and stop you from cumming?”

by the time the ferris wheel begins to descend, your mind is lost to the pleasure nanami fucks into your pussy. your exhausted fingers rub furiously at your puffy clit as you bounce frantically on your professor’s drenched cock, letting the fat cockhead bully that spongy sweet spot nestled along your walls repeatedly until you’re wailing even louder, the sound barely muffled by nanami’s thick fingers.

it’s so fucking good that neither one of you care about getting caught any longer, consequences be damned. the musky scent of sex permeates the tight air, the capsule rocks violently with your sloppy movements. and how could you care about anything else when nanami grips your hair and hisses into your ear, once and for all, “cum for me, you little slut,”

“uhuh, k-kento-sensei ‘m gonna cum for y-you-! jus’ for you-!” you promise with a cry, swallowing his cock down with greedy bounces of your cunt to his lap— thighs trembling violently, eyes crossing up, blurring your vision with tears as you fuck lewdly. your nails scratch down the window desperately as kento takes over and rubs his fingers through your slit, hooking his middle finger into your cunt alongside his cock, stretching you out even further while his thumb is back to rubbing into your clit again. sharp shocks of pleasure in that final movement that burns through your veins, throwing you over the edge.

“give me one, little love- give me one right here, let me feel you-”

you’re wailing too fucking loud, but he doesn’t dare stop you, not when you’re this breathtaking. trembling in his lap as the knot in your lower belly bursts wide open, knees clacking against his hips as your orgasm curls your toes, washing you down with white hot pleasure. you cling to nanami’s neck desperately, cunt expanding as overstimulation sets in and you splash juices against his shorts and the hem of your sundress with so much force that his cock slips out with a wet squelch, until you quickly push it back in with a gasp.

“h-hah, oh god-!” you squeal, writhing all over his lap, cunt still pulsing and clamping around him. kento swears and you know that he’s close too, doing your best to give him a few more weak drops of your cunt on his cock. his muscles tighten and he cums with a long guttural groan that he buries against the sweaty skin of your neck, spurting thick globs of warm seed right up against your womb just as your gondola reaches the bottom of the ferris wheel—

“f-fuck, darling. get off- get the fuck up right now-”

you quickly climb off of kento’s lap on gummy legs, his cum pooling against your cotton panties and trickling messily down your inner thigh. you wipe your thighs on the hem of your ruined dress as kento calmly tucks his dripping cock back into his shorts before buttoning his wrinkled shirt up with an air of easy sophistication, as if he just didn’t fuck his student dirty on a ferris wheel, as if your squirt isn't soaked into his shorts and dripping onto his shoes.

“come here, you,” he beckons, reaching for you to tenderly wipe your tear stained cheeks with his shirt, clearing up the smudges of mascara. “there.”

you smile at him blearily just as the door to the gondola opens. the ride operators take in your disheveled appearances, but round it up to an hour of being stranded at the top of a thrill ride. what were they going to say, anyway? miss, why is that man's cum leaking down your leg?

nanami is casual, holding his head high and exiting first with your pompompurin plush while you follow behind him shyly, his arm wrapping around your waist to hoist you down from the gondola. he knows that the limp in your walk will be too obvious— you’re always so sore after he fucks you— so he kneels down on the platform, letting you climb onto his back to be carried.

the carnival is deserted now. rides that once blasted the summer’s top hits have been shut down, sideshows boarded up for the night, and fairgoers who filled the streets have gone home by the time you and nanami make your way towards the exit, avoiding the makeshift emergency triage to the left checking on passengers of the ferris wheel even though no one was injured. but maybe you needed to let them check your heart and diagnose why you selfishly forced nanami into hanging out with you on his only day off, why you confessed to loving your professor while you were bouncing on his cock—

why you meant every word you said to him.

“say, kento,” you call sleepily, one cheek smushed against his shoulder as your head lolls cutely against it. you hear him hum for you to continue, shifting your weight evenly as he walks out of the carnival grounds and towards the parking lot. a lump forms at the base of your throat, and you hate how vulnerable and weak you sound. “i’m sorry for dragging you out here today on your day off. you must be annoyed with me, right?”

“don’t be foolish,” his voice is back to that endearing monotone, but he gives your thighs a soft squeeze as he strolls, pressing the key finder to his mercedes once you reach the parking lot to locate it. he's been an idiot the entire time, hiding you away like he has. “i’m off next saturday too so let’s go out on a date again.”

˚‧ ✰ hottest students in nanami's class: @tobiodose, @lawscorazon, @fushisslut, @danibby, @hanmas, @atsumeii, @venusflytrapstar, @sheerxfiction, @sintiva, @getosbunny, @tonaken, @sailewhoremoon !!

#nanami x reader #nanami kento x reader #nanami kento x you #nanami smut #nanami kento smut #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x you #jujutsu kaisen x you #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #nanami kento imagines #jujutsu kaisen imagines

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sungbeam · 3 months

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𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 — teaser!

nonidol!kim younghoon x f!reader

neither you nor younghoon were party people, but you did find love in the convenience store down the block.

▷ genre, teaser warnings. friends 2 lovers, mutual pining, college au, swearing, mentions of chemistry & physics

▷ projected release date. february 16th/17th hopefully!

▷ estimated wc. 24-26k ... maybe

this is the seventh installment of the love in unity series! this can be read as a standalone, but there are multiple references to previous fics & i highly encourage u to read those; all other yns will be referred to as _!yn. (ayc occurs DURING party people)

a/n: surprise 🦅 @justalildumpling approved btw

TEASER BELOW THE CUT (APPROX. 500 WORDS)

Younghoon had never been tardy to your tutoring sessions last year, so you weren't surprised when you saw him seated at your usual table in the corner. He glanced up from his phone as you walked in, waving. There was a blue colored beanie over his head and a brown corduroy jacket draped over his shoulders.

He noted the container in your hands and his eyes widened like saucers. “You did not.”

“I told you I would save you a piece,” you said sheepishly as you set the container down in front of him and took a seat.

“You—” His bottom lip jutted out. “I can't accept this.”

“You have to. It has your name on it,” you insisted, pointing out the little “Younghoon” scrawled on the side in Sharpie with a smiley face. It was customary in your household to write names on containers if they weren't already color coded or marked with a label. Label makers cost more than Sharpies did, and most of the time, your family didn't mind scrubbing the ink off if needed.

Younghoon's smile was sweet like the pastry sitting in the Tupperware. “I literally made French toast as soon as we stopped texting.”

You laughed. “No way.”

“Yes way! I dragged Hyunjae's ass out of bed,” he told you with great energy, eyes alight as he recalled his late morning antics to you. “I really didn't expect that you would bring me a slice, Yn, you sweetheart.”

“We had lots of leftovers and I just knew the most enthusiastic bread fanatic I knew had to try some of my big brother's toast,” you told him, pleased with his reaction.

He seemed at a loss for words; he just kept looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky, and you wondered how you could replicate this reaction over and over again. “Thank you,” was what he settled on. “I—” He gestured to the container, to you, to the container, “It means a lot.”

“You're welcome,” you said simply.

Younghoon heaved a great sigh and stood up. “Now I have to buy you some snacks—no. Yn, sit your ass down.”

Your eyes widened a comical amount and you plopped yourself back onto the chair.

His lips wiggled as he held back a smile. “Don't move.”

“You don't have to do this, Hoon,” you shook your head as he began making his way over to the aisles.

“What's that rule in chemistry? Energy can neither be created nor destroyed?” He queried from within the drinks aisle.

“The first law of thermodynamics,” you supplied. “It's not just chemistry though. It's prevalent in all the sciences.” You weren't sure where he was going with this.

“Yeah, well—” He paused. You couldn't see him from where you were, but even the rustling noises stopped. “Shit, that's not the right rule.”

You bit back a laugh. Oh, he was too adorable.

“What's the one where equal and opposite and…?”

Your brain tripped. “Uh, the—the 'for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction’ one?”

More crinkling. “Aha! That's the one. Yeah, so for your actions, I must do as the physicists do, and react accordingly.”

permanent taglist: @flwoie @vatterie @seomisaho @hqrana @ja4hyvn @outrologist @rikizm @tinkerbell460 @kaaimins @hyunjaespresent-deobi @otterly-fey @zzoguri @floatingpluto @winterchimez @ethereal-engene @gyulfriend @polarisjisung @jaehunnyy @shakalakaboomboo @loveliestfelix @bless-311 @zhaixiaowen @leaz-kpop-life @amourdsr @pxppxrminty @kqyutie @sseastar-main @kxthleen14 @fluorescentloves @mosviqu @jaerisdiction @super-btstrash-posts @jundundun @http-gyu @mvvnsseul @vernonburger @maessseongs @ericlvr @mars101 @moonyswolf @your-mirae @richasdiary

#deoboyznet #the boyz x reader #tbz x reader #kim younghoon x reader #the boyz fanfic #younghoon x reader #the boyz oneshot #the boyz imagines #the boyz drabbles #the boyz scenarios #the boyz fluff #younghoon imagines #younghoon drabbles #younghoon scenarios #younghoon oneshots #younghoon fluff

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quietwingsinthesky · 3 months

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not as crucial but still vital information is that jack does. at some point. figure out how to fuck the tardis.

#if he hasn’t already!!!#jack harkness is the tardis’s sexy poolboy #tardis family au

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doverstar · 23 days

Note

THERE WAS NO OTHER ENDING FOR ROSE and ya know what, I like to think the doctor thinks so too

I think he does too! I’m gonna talk about it, are you ready for me to talk about it? Are you ready for an essay-

I think the Doctor would agree that the ending Rose got—the one with Tentoo on Pete’s World—was the best possible fate for her. I’ll explain why, because I feel like it. First I’ll break down Rose’s most popular alternative-endings. Let’s start with Rose-stays-with-him-until-she-dies. That’s the one Rose decided on long before Canary Wharf. She planned on staying with the Time Lord until she physically couldn’t anymore. Forever.

First of all, that would be painful for the Doctor. He already said it. Watching Rose get shot, drowned, stabbed, sucked into a black hole, sacrificed for a remote planet’s civilization, poisoned, pulled into a void, atomized, eaten, possessed, run over, diseased, or ripped apart would be traumatic and terrible for the Doctor.

Watching Rose grow old and tired and then die would also be incredibly painful. He might try to prolong her life in alien ways, even in medical ways, but then she’s subjected to an unnatural, un-human existence until death claims her. Making a naturally-decaying body stick around and eke out another year, another hour, another century while he watches, exactly the same as ever. Yikes. Not fun for either of them. No thank you. He was against that ending with good reason.

Now, this ending where Rose stays with him until she dies? It is no less an emotional commitment to make than the one every married couple on Earth, every affectionate relationship on Earth, makes. Friends, family, spouses. You will lose them. You have to decide to love them knowing that.

The Doctor does love Rose, but he can’t tell her or admit it aloud because to do that would be facing a reality he’s not willing to face: he loves something he will inevitably lose. The old coward will not do it.

I believe that if Rose wanted to stay with him until she died, knowing she has a shorter lifespan but committing to holding his hand until she could not hold it anymore because he needs that and she can give it to him, and she knows he loves her back—100% yes girl, go for it. That is good and right and fine and she should be allowed to make that commitment. That’s love. That’s literal marriage vows. That’s unconditional, unwavering, and Rose is the first companion in 60 years of TARDIS passengers to love him like that. And he knows it. And it’s scary. But. Even in marriage, that is a commitment that has to be agreed upon by both parties. And the Doctor did not agree. The Doctor, selfish old man, is too afraid. He doesn’t want to watch Rose die, and he tried to explain that to her without confessing anything, and she heard him and tried to explain to him that she decided he would always have her if she had anything to say about it, not for her sake, but for his. (“Who’s gonna hold his hand now?” “I made my choice a long time ago and I’m never gonna leave you.” “Forever.”)

Now. That’s the first option for an alternate ending for Rose. She stays with him as a mortal and he has to watch her die, and they either dance around expressing their love in an unspoken, inexplicit way until he loses her and it’s agony, or they jump in with both feet and enjoy the time they have left, however many days Rose has before death, with the knowledge and understanding that he will outlive her, which is agony but with kissing. Still not 100% happy because one of them is, well, in agony. With a significantly long life stretched out ahead of him to spend as a widower. And it would fundamentally change the nature of a 60-year-old television show, but that’s another Ask for another time. Next is the Immortal!Rose AU, or the Bad Wolf AU. Personally, I don’t care for this AU (though I get the appeal and I do sometimes wish it could be that way). I used to think it was a good idea, and sometimes it's still sweet and I can see it, but the older I got, the more I disagreed with it. Because really, it doesn’t work. The AU’s idea—or its most popular explanation—is that Rose, by absorbing the Time Vortex and looking into the heart of the TARDIS in The Parting of the Ways, retained one slice of her godlike powers: she became immortal. Even after the Doctor kissed her and took the Vortex away to save her. The most-used version of this is that neither Rose nor the Doctor are aware that Rose was left with immortality until Tentoo ages and she doesn’t, or her family ages and she doesn’t.

The reason why I don’t think the Doctor would ultimately want this ending for Rose? The Doctor himself would not recommend immortality. He knows it’s ultimately a devastating existence. He himself has a ridiculously-long lifespan. Time Lords are supposed to only have a certain number of regenerations, but each regeneration, if left to age naturally, lives a long freaking time. (With the new Timeless Child nonsense, who knows, apparently the Doctor exclusively is immortal? I pretend I do not see it.) And then if they should die of old age, they regenerate and another chapter of life begins. So the Doctor knows what it’s like to essentially be immortal. And he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like watching his friends die around him. He doesn’t like knowing he will outlive the people and places he cares about. He hates it. “Immortality is everybody else dying.” “In the end you just get tired. Tired of the struggle. Tired of losing everyone that matters to you, tired of watching everything turn to dust.” That last line, the Lazarus speech, sounds familiar because it’s something similar, interestingly, to what Rose said when she was the Bad Wolf. “Everything comes to dust.” Immortality is not a blessing. Immortality is absolutely a curse, and the show treats it like a curse. It’s not just never dying. Immortality is being alone and being unnatural. It’s bad. It’s not a good thing. If you were a 100% perfect person with a 100% perfect memory, it might be doable, but it’s not an easy existence. It sounds awful actually. We saw it with Ashildr (terrible idea). She’s miserable. She never really stops being miserable. Think about this: the Doctor is (kind of) immortal. He never stays in one place for too long, and he is careful to bring along far more mortal traveling companions wherever he goes. The Doctor once told Amy that he brought her with him because he can’t “see it” anymore (meaning the universe and its value), but he brings Amy and others with him because they can see it. “And when you see it, I see it.” What is everyone always telling him? Don’t travel alone. Not because he’s lonely—even though he totally is. It’s because when he is alone, the Doctor becomes a hazard, not a help. He starts to feel like he can do whatever he wants. I mean, think about it. He starts to feel like his judgement is infallible, because he’s basically a god, isn’t he? But no one should have that much power. It takes a lot to kill him, he’s a genius, and he has a time-and-space machine. What can’t he do? After a long, long, long time of living and being alone, essentially in an echo chamber with himself, the Doctor would lose empathy and compassion and humility just like anyone else. Because he’s not perfect. But he brings friends along to remind him he can stop now. To remind him we don’t walk away. To remind him that the universe has life in it that is worth saving, and that there is such a thing as right and wrong, and that he is not God, and that there is no such thing as little people. 900 years of time and space and he’s never met anybody who wasn’t important before. He needs his friends to hold him to the mark.

So—the Doctor knows that being immortal basically means that in the end you’ll see everything come to dust. If you’re not careful, you won’t be you anymore. And nothing and no one else will be themselves to you, either. You will lose the people/places you care about, and you will be alone, and you will stop caring. And then not only will you be wretched, you’ll be dangerous. Someone who doesn’t care is dangerous. It’s Ted Bundy. It’s evil. But it’s okay, I hear you saying. If they had each other, he would always have someone to hold him to the mark! Well - yes and then no - Think about Rose. Rose Tyler is a young human woman with so much empathy and sympathy. She is “so human”, in the Doctor’s own words. She is imperfect, and selfish, and petty, and easily angry and easily jealous. She is also impossibly compassionate, even towards the most ruthless murderous species. She’s kind and generous and brave and has a strong sense of justice. She’s often very selfless and very loving. Especially toward the Doctor. She values doing the right thing. A lot of those traits are found in the Doctor’s other friends (he chooses them with great care). But Rose is different. The Doctor is in love with Rose. And Rose is a lot of ‘firsts’ for Doctor Who. She’s the first companion to inspire change in a Dalek. She’s the first companion to tell him she’s in love with him. (Jo loved him, Sarah Jane loved him, Grace loved him, yes I know there were others.) She’s the first companion to be a real, proper onscreen equal to the Doctor, and not in a She’s Basically the Doctor But A Girl way, like Clara Oswald tried to be. She is not his assistant, his carer, his associate, his sidekick, his adoptive daughter, adoptive little sister, biological granddaughter, or his partner. Not to be Emily Bronte, but these two characters have the same heart. Like recognized like and fell in love. Perfect complementation. That is also another Ask for another time –

RTD said that Rose “humans [the Doctor] and he Time Lords her”. He brings out the courage and confidence in her that makes her so exceptional as a human, things that turn her into a hero, things she already had in her that the Doctor pulled forward. In turn, she brings out the compassion and humility in him that makes him a hero instead of a villain, things he always had in him that she pulled forward, adding humanity which would otherwise be easy for him to cast off.

But she can’t human him if she isn’t human anymore.

The things that make Rose an exceptional mortal would no longer be exceptional if she were immortal. The good traits would be a duty to retain, and the bad traits would be a poison to keep at bay. Because Rose is on a different level when it comes to her relationship with the Doctor, she could, for a time, help hold him to the mark. They would be exactly as we saw them in the show—passing by, helping out, saving the day, loving one another, making one another better. And then after eons go by, they would be each other’s echo chamber. Rose is the Doctor’s equal? Given eternity to stagnate in, what was once a strength would quickly become a weakness. Rose is not perfect and the Doctor is not perfect. Rose would not always be able to “see it” anymore either, even with the Doctor there. Same goes for him. They might be together forever, but Rose would be watching her mother, father, brother, friends, and family all age and die. She would hate that. But it would be okay because she has the Doctor, right? I agree with that. They have one another. So they’re never alone. That’s good. But Rose would not be a Time Lord. She’d be an immortal human. Ashildr 2.0, finite memory in an infinite body. She’d become detached, unable to appreciate the universe, and she’d stop investing in mortal relationships because they all end eventually. All she’d have would be the Doctor—and that’s wonderful, but after a while it would stop being a special thing that they have one another. Don’t look at me like that; it would. Okay, no – no - even if the Bad Wolf powers allowed Rose to have an infinite memory to go with her infinite body, fine, let’s say they did, she and the Doctor would still end up with “a backyard” as Eleven called it.

And eventually they would both think that the two of them, together, have the best judgement in the universe and should be treated as gods, and they will stop caring (except about each other, which doesn’t sound good for all the little people who are not part of that relationship, can you say unhealthy?). Or else they will become enemies, the way the Master and the Doctor became enemies. Or they won’t be able to travel with one another indefinitely, the way Ashildr, the Rani, River, Clara, and Romana can’t travel with the Doctor indefinitely. Because it would become toxic for everyone. And they would be back to being miserable, wouldn’t they?

(And – again - let me finish beating this tiny horse here: if you think Rose Tyler would heal fairly quickly - say, ten centuries in - and warm up to the reality that she has outlived other humans because she is really no longer human, we aren’t thinking of the same Rose Tyler.)

The Doctor would not wish the curse of the Time Lords on anybody, especially not the woman he loves. He would not agree that immortality is the happiest ending for Rose, or even for himself and Rose. There’s a very real chance that immortality would ruin Rose. He wouldn’t do that to her. He loves her.

And here we go, here’s my freaking point - The Doctor loves Rose. So he would give her what she wants, even if it means sacrificing what he wants. Putting her needs before his own. That’s love. She knows that; she was trying to do that for him the whole time!

But what does Rose want? Adventure in the great wide somewhere? No. Rose wants love. Rose wants the assurance of real, true love. Rose wants to love and be loved. And when she finds that, she is darn good at it, and she will do her best to keep it. AND THAT IS ANOTHER ASK FOR ANOTHER TIME, HOOOO BOY DON’T POKE ME- The Doctor cannot give Rose what she wants using himself, or even the thing that will make him happy too, for a time—because to outlive her would be absolutely terrible, and they both know it, and because he will not put her through the curse of immortality. (She doesn’t want to live forever anyway.)

But he can give her what she wants in the form of Tentoo. Are you kidding me? A 100% exact copy of the Doctor? The same face, same mannerisms, same hair? All the memories of loving her and longing for her in his head? And he only has one heart? He’ll grow old at the same time as Rose does? Plus, hi, he actually was born in mini wartime and needs the very influence Rose provided for his ninth self? Come on. What else was he going to do? Of course the Doctor and Tentoo gave her this chance. When Rose asks him “What was the last thing you said to me?” The Doctor could have said “I love you”. He was going to say it. It is canon that he was going to say that he loved her if the connection hadn’t been severed the first time. And for him to say it then, they both knew, would have been all Rose needed to hear. She would have gone with him and Donna and died. Or gone with him and Donna and become immortal somehow, hey I hear there are these random Mire repair kits kicking around out there in the universe, they make people immortal, funny we never saw them before now, I hate you Moffat- But he didn’t say it. He said “I said ‘Rose Tyler’.” And she gives him one more chance to say it. “How was that sentence gonna end?” “Does it need saying?” Well, no, it doesn’t. We’re not asking you to confirm it. She’s not asking you to confirm it. It never needed saying. You both knew it was love. We knew it was love. A hundred times over, it was love on display.

But she is asking him to make a choice—and he chooses to let her go because he loves her.

It’s not a question of love. They give each other a chance, both of them. Don’t make the mistake of thinking Rose had no choice. She asked both of those Doctors to tell her they loved her, and she chose the one that said it out loud, after learning her options. She learned one of them would grow old and was offering to spend forever with her if she wanted. She learned that one of them was genuinely choosing not to say he loved her on purpose. She made an informed decision. (Yes, she ran after the TARDIS when it left. Wouldn’t you?) The Doctor would agree that Tentoo is the best ending for Rose. Tentoo would agree (because he is the Doctor, and bonus, he gets to have Rose Tyler). Because this, this ending where she gets Tentoo, which is our fancy term for differentiating between two versions of exactly the same man, don’t go there with me-

This ending where she gets Tentoo is genuinely what she always wanted. She didn’t want to live forever. She didn’t want a boring life, but she didn’t desperately want adventure over all else. She wanted love. That’s an adventure anyway. Love. And she loved the Doctor. And she got to have the Doctor, and not lose him, or watch him lose her. And the Doctor, our full Time Lord Doctor, had the assurance of knowing that he did the best he could do for the woman he loved.

(Plus, because yes please, in an official deleted scene which has been confirmed to be intended as canon, Tentoo and Rose have a chunk of TARDIS coral and are growing their own, so they get to see the universe too, so you can’t even complain that all is not as it should be in that sense.) It is sad, because the full Time Lord has to carry on without her (that’s how the story always goes for him, and it should be because without loving and losing, an immortal alien will not have the periodic wake-up call he needs to remember that there is value in people and in relationships and in caring), and it’s sad because Rose won’t see him again, and it’s sad because we won’t really see Rose again. But for her, it is the best ending. It is the kindest, fairest ending. And I think the Doctor would agree.

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heliads · 5 months

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Your other Strollonso fic was AWESOME so can I request a Strollonso mafia!AU maybe? Like maybe it’s an arranged marriage so mob boss Nando can keep his alliance with Larry Stroll and they’re super awkward around each other at first but get closer and then Lance gets kidnapped and hurt by a rival and Nando just flips his shit and tears apart the city to find him and they have a really nice lil kiss once Lance is safe and ok? Thanks so much 💕💕

'not just one of your many toys' - fernando x lance

masterlist

It is Fernando Alonso’s own wedding day, and he’s already half an hour late. It’s not a good look, certainly, but no one in their right minds would ever say that the head of the Spanish mob has ever been good, so, according to Fernando, this just fits right in with the rest of his grim reputation. It’s all about appearances, isn’t it?

Today, though, it’s not beyond Fernando to admit that he should have done better. Today matters. Fernando is not stupid enough to have actually fallen in love with someone, so he doesn’t have to worry about disappointing a heartsick fiancée. Besides, if he wanted someone like that, he would have managed to twist his way inside their mind enough that they would forgive him for this tardiness the second he asked.

No, today isn’t a matter of love. Rumor has it that the Spanish mob had their hearts cut out in an expensive procedure when they turned eighteen, and although that’s an obvious fabrication since they’re all still bleeding rich red, it’s true enough by emotional standards. If you love, you die. Fernando Alonso does not accept weakness. If he ever fell in love, he would kill the object of his desires first so they could never drag him down again.

This, then, is yet another business transaction. Fernando has been courting the Stroll family for years now, eyeing their billions ever since they made their first killing, but now, he’s finally managed to force his way in. A young man is waiting on an altar somewhere across the city; Lawrence Stroll’s only son, Lance. Fernando and Lawrence cut this deal a month ago, and it took far too many pulled strings for Fernando to fuck it up like this now. If he were smart, he would have been there early.

Instead, his knife is halfway inside another man’s chest cavity, and Fernando is no closer to wrapping this up than he had been fifteen minutes ago when he realized he was late in the first place. He can’t afford to rush this, though. Traitors never flourish in the mob, least of all with Fernando’s men. Fernando has a reputation to uphold, his marital status be damned. If he doesn’t make this guy a prime example of what happens when you cross Fernando Alonso, his whole business will be riddled with holes until it all comes crashing down.

Still, Fernando can’t afford to piss off the Strolls more than he has already. Jerking his knife out of a partially deflated lung with a hiss of annoyance, Fernando turns to his second in command, Carlos Sainz. The younger, that is. The father is somewhere getting rich off of his son’s bloodlust, as all dutiful parents should be. “You’ll have to carry on with the rest. I was needed thirty minutes ago.”

Carlos swears under his breath. “Shit, I forgot about the wedding. I can make Alguersuari take over if you want me there. It can’t hurt to have backup, I don’t trust the fucking Canadians not to pull some shit.”

Fernando shakes his head. “Stay, I need a guarantee this is handled properly. Besides, I’ll have others there. This isn’t the day that I die.”

Carlos doesn’t look convinced. “You’re going into their stronghold. All of their guys will be there.”

Fernando chuckles. “It’s not a death trap, Carlos, it’s a church. Even Lawrence isn’t bloodthirsty enough to off me en una iglesia.”

Carlos makes a snorting sound that lets Fernando know just what he thinks of that, but one sharp look from Fernando silences the last of his objections. Carlos is a good kid, and Fernando trusts him the most out of anyone here, but in the end, it’s Fernando’s show, and he’s got to make sure none of his men are bashing his soon-to-be husband’s father any more than absolutely necessary.

Fernando cleans off his hands with a rag, grimacing at the spots of purple and green already starting to flower over his knuckles. Bruises on his hands don’t exactly add to the wedding atmosphere, but everyone there already knows what he’s capable of, so this should be no surprise. He exits the building and directs his driver to the church. They get there as fast as they can, but, judging by the stony expression on Lawrence Stroll when Fernando arrives at last, it wasn’t fast enough. He’s only thirty-five minutes late, though. By all accounts, it’s not even that bad.

Lawrence takes him by the arm, leading him casually yet forcefully to one of the small rooms in the back of the church used for the wedding party to prepare themselves before the big event.

“Where have you been?” Lawrence glowers the second the door closes.

“Traffic,” Fernando muses. “It’s terrible in these parts.”

Lawrence arches a silver brow. “You have blood on your cuffs.”

Fernando glances down at his sleeves and fights a wince. It’s only a few drops, but the copper stains still manage to stand out against the fine material. “Really bad traffic. Tourists should have their licenses revoked if they go more than ten below the limit.”

Lawrence doesn’t seem to be in the mood for jokes, which is good, because neither is Fernando. None of them like this deal, but they have no better options, so here they are. “Do not forget what rests upon this agreement,” Lawrence intones. “This is not some pretty spring wedding. I must admit, I was relieved when I signed my son over to you because I thought you of all people would understand everything that depends on this. And then you showed up late.”

Fernando tilts his head to the side slightly. “I know exactly what this means. I signed the contract. Let me be the first to assure you that I have no second thoughts. I was merely handling business.”

The air in the prep room is damn near icy. Lawrence is good at the scary act, but Fernando has been inspiring fear in the hearts of better mob men for decades now, and he isn’t the type to back down. Fernando may have coveted the Stroll money, but Lawrence wanted something too, or he never would have agreed to this in the first place. Fernando has had a long and bloody climb to the top of the Spanish mob, and Lawrence wants the notoriety and security of being forever associated with that kind of success. What tie could be better than a marriage? Lawrence had already married off his daughter to a lesser gun of the Bulls, but, well, there was always the other heir.

The legalization of gay marriage did a lot for mob patriarchs. One piece of paper, one actual legal thing about their whole enterprise, could genuinely complete an union between two families. Now, when searching for tenuous threads on which to conduct alliances, wealthy fathers with bloody hands wouldn’t just have to pray for daughters, they could also marry off their useless sons.

Fernando knows for a fact that there’s been talk of Charles Leclerc from the Chevaux Rouges getting married off to one of the other dime-a-dozen Frenchmen. Pierre Gasly’s father has been pushing that agenda since both young men were boys, but Fernando also knows the way that one of his own best men, Carlos, has been eyeing the Monegasque, so maybe the deal wasn’t yet set in stone after all. Fernando should get after Carlos for that. Pretty boys aren’t worth toppling alliances. He’ll get himself in trouble faster than a sports car can accelerate.

After all, this was supposed to be about politics, not actual affection. Fernando is the perfect example of this. He could count the times he’s seen Lance Stroll on one hand. The boy lingers in the back of his father’s meetings, pulling exaggerated faces when he’s certain nobody can see him, but Fernando isn’t even sure he’s actually talked to him more than forced interactions conducted in an effort to make it seem like Fernando is a team player. Then again, he doesn’t actually have to enjoy Lance’s company. He just needs his hand in marriage.

One of Lawrence’s men hurries into the room, holding his phone aloft. “A body was just discovered across town. Strung up by the church spire.”

Lawrence eyes Fernando coolly. “Traffic?”

Fernando just sinks his teeth into a matching icy grin. “Traffic,” he agrees.

Lawrence reaches forward, taking hold of Fernando’s hands like he’s praying the rosary. “Do not put any further stains upon my family,” he intones. “Waste the money I give you, fine. Kill your enemies on my own dime. But do not misuse my son. And do not keep him waiting any longer.”

Lawrence squeezes abruptly, causing the rapidly forming bruises on Fernando’s knuckles to twinge with fresh pain, then pulls away. Fernando follows him into the sanctuary of the church. Men in varying shades of black suits watch him like hawks from both sides of the aisle, women most of them probably don’t know lingering on their arms. At the front, Lance’s best man eyes Fernando with particular hatred, but Esteban Ocon has despised Fernando ever since a certain deal went south last year, so Fernando doesn’t pay him much attention. It’s very easy to ignore the Frenchman, which makes Esteban even more irate.

Fernando studies his fiancé. He’s not even certain that Lance was in the room when Lawrence and Fernando agreed on the marriage union, but it’s not like it would have mattered anyway. Lawrence makes the decisions for the Strolls. In a way, Fernando feels like he’s been courting the Stroll patriarch more than his son, but it’s all in the interest of a pawn to move around. Both Lawrence and Fernando can agree on that, apparently.

Lance considers Fernando with vague interest, eyeing him up and down with a lifted brow. He’s not bad to look at, all things considered. He supposes it could have been worse; for a while, that Russian upstart, Mazepin, was thought to be someone to coerce into a marriage, but then his family was revealed to be a bunch of rats and were subsequently driven out of the business. Fernando feels he dodged a bullet there.

The ceremony is conducted without much difficulty. Lawrence insisted on an extravagant reception so they can at least pretend this is a wedding and not just a job reassignment, and Fernando has been dreading this part all day. Carlos turns up an hour into the reception, matching bruises dotting his knuckles. Fernando tells him to enjoy himself as a reward for his good work, but not to have too much fun. Drunkenness and debauchery on a night like this would condemn Fernando even more than showing up late to his own wedding.

Fernando completes circuit after circuit of the event hall, shaking hands with Stroll associates and hearing congratulations from his associates. Many mob men are here as a sign of respect; Esteban brought Pierre as well, so the French are adequately represented, plus young Mick from the Germans.

Nico Rosberg usually turns up to these sorts of things, so Fernando is sort of surprised that he didn’t show, but then he notices Lewis Hamilton talking with his fellow Silver Arrow George Russell by the bar and the pieces click together again. Now that had been a split to remember. Lewis and Nico had run things together since they were kids, but when Lewis switched sides overnight, Nico had been left without a right hand man when he was about to consider a major deal. It was a stab in the back from the one person Rosberg had thought was his most loyal ally. All of the informants had been simmering for ages afterwards. Talk about a scandal.

After greeting both Arrows, Fernando has to steer Carlos away from the Chevaux Rouges again– he’ll have to have a conversation with the younger man about that later, it does no good to make it so easy to tell what you want– and spoken to Charles Leclerc once he was alone again. Lawrence Stroll has been satisfied by the turnout, so he’s actually in a good mood when he and Fernando talk lightly about business later on.

By the end of the reception, Fernando has managed to have a conversation with everyone but his new husband. When the lights are turned off at the end, they’re both in the same car heading to Fernando’s mansion, but Fernando has to take another half dozen quick calls from regretful allies who were otherwise occupied tonight, so they don’t say a word until they arrive at the door.

Fernando lets them in, muttering something under his breath about needing to get Lance a set of keys. He gives Lance a rough tour of the estate, essentially just enough to know where to sleep, work, and take meals, but when he’s done talking, Lance still stands there expectantly in front of the door to Fernando’s office.

At first, Fernando hardly even notices that he remains. He would have assumed the younger man would want to go to bed. It’s late, and although Fernando still has plenty of work to be done, Lance is likely used to a life of comfort, so he’d want to catch up on sleep. It isn’t until he starts grabbing files from a cabinet at the far side of the room that Lance coughs pointedly.

Fernando glances up as he stacks papers on his desk. Now that he’s got access to Lance’s funds, he’ll need to go over potential expenditures for the coming months. There are a couple of business ventures he’s been waiting to accelerate until this windfall, but now he can race towards whatever he pleases. So long as it turns a good profit, of course.

“Do you need something? There should be servants down the hall if you require anything.” He says, glancing back down at the files in his hands.

Lance shakes his head. “No, I was waiting for you.”

Fernando frowns. “Whatever for?”

It’s strange to see someone so high up in the mob who still hasn’t yet learned the value of a good poker face. Fernando can actually see the incredulity appear in Lance’s eyes and spread to his dropped-jaw stare. “It’s our wedding night, Fernando.”

“I am aware,” Fernando says. “I was there at the wedding.”

Lance scoffs. “Yes, but– come on, man, do I have to say it?”

Fernando looks Lance dead in the eyes for what might be the first night all evening. “You don’t have to say anything, Lance. I’m not oblivious, even if you seem to be. This is not a normal marriage. We are wed in name and fortune but nothing else. If your bed is cold, turn up the heat or imagine someone else is there. I have work to do.”

Lance’s brow furrows with indignation, but when he speaks again, his words are tight and controlled. So he can manage his anger, at least. That’s a start. “I see. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” Fernando says, just barely managing to keep his mouth from twitching into a disbelieving smile when he says it. Are they children? Should he offer Lance a nightlight? Wishing him goodnight. Please. Fernando is a professional killer. They do not tell each other soft goodbyes when they wipe out entire bloodlines.

Fernando has no idea what his husband ends up doing, but he stays up late to sift through more ledgers. The second his mind begins to cloud from exhaustion, he goes straight to bed, and wakes respectably early into the morning. He works out with the same base routine he’s used since he first entered the business, of course adding a few repetitions or new drills here and there where he can sense the weakness in his muscles.

By the time he’s showered, dressed, and entered the kitchen for some coffee and breakfast, Lance has just begun to stumble downstairs, hair flattened by his pillow and half sticking up. He’s still in his pajamas, which consist of sweats and a shirt for some tennis player Fernando doesn’t recognize.

Fernando arches a brow at him. “Sleep well?”

“Wonderfully,” Lance grumbles, the syllables turning into a yawn halfway through.

Again, Fernando feels the need to swallow a laugh. He doesn’t think anyone’s spoken to him without an undercurrent of fear in a very long time, yet here Lance Stroll is, oversleeping and walking around his mansion in leisure wear. Technically, it is Lance’s mansion as well now, but still. Fernando doesn’t even think his sister dared to wear anything other than business casual when she visited.

Fernando does need Lance to feel valued, though. The last thing he needs is Lance complaining to his father that Fernando keeps judging him or something, then this whole thing could go up in flames. Fernando can be a dutiful husband even if it kills him.

“Would you like something to eat?” Fernando asks politely. “We have fruit, eggs, anything. Our chef can make it.”

“A bagel, maybe?” Lance says, yawning again.

Fernando nods. “I’ll ask the chef to prepare some.”

Although Fernando does his best to keep his true emotions in check, Lance, apparently, is beyond the same need to not laugh at his spouse. “Dude, it’s a bagel. One ingredient. Surely you don’t need the chef.”

Fernando scowls. “I just wanted to ask him what types we had in stock. I am aware that bagels are a simple food to serve.”

Lance chuckles again. “You’re telling me the head of the Spanish mob knows every one of his enemies but not every one of his bagels? Terrible priorities, man.”

Fernando is starting to realize that marriage might be difficult. See, if Lance could just be properly nervous around him like every other son of a mob boss Fernando has met, they wouldn’t have to have this terrible interaction, but no, Lance seems immune to everything. Delightful.

He extends a hand towards the extensive pantry. “Feel free to check by yourself. I’m sure it’s incredibly important for the sons of mob bosses to be able to verify their own information. Even on bagels.”

Lance grins sarcastically. “Technically, I’m not just the son of a mob boss, but the husband of one, too. If you’re going to mock me like everyone else, at least do it well.”

Fernando frowns. “I’m not trying to mock you.”

Lance spares a disbelieving glance towards Fernando, then turns back to his search for breakfast. “Really? Is that why this is the longest you’ve ever spoken to me since you realized you could get my dad’s money by marriage?”

Fernando can’t entirely argue with that, so he doesn’t. “You don’t have to hate me, Lance.”

“Oh, I don’t,” Lance says cheerfully. “I’m just pointing out the obvious. Seeing as we’re going to be stuck together for the foreseeable future, I would advise you to do the same. And in case you were curious, you have both plain bagels and cinnamon raisin.”

With that, Lance breezes back out of the kitchen, carbohydrate prize secured. Seconds later, Carlos files into the kitchen, glancing curiously back in the direction Lance had gone. “Sorry to bother you, I just had the information on Verstappen that you wanted. What the hell happened there? And since when have you had bagels in the house?”

“No idea,” Fernando says tiredly. It answers both questions well enough.

Lance Stroll proves himself to be more and more of an enigma as the days go by. He joins Fernando for meals only when Fernando asks, but then he seems disappointed that they don’t do anything else together. He zones out when Fernando talks business, then always gets annoyed when Fernando so much as alludes to the conditions leading to their marriage. Fernando can’t decide if Lance is actually happy with the arrangement– or, as Fernando is beginning to suspect, if he had any say in the matter at all. Strange for the heir to the Stroll legacy to have grown up with so little sway over his father’s business. It is as if Lawrence expected to live forever, so he never bothered teaching Lance the ropes.

Fernando tries to make it work. A little. Not enough. He’s busy, that’s all, he doesn’t have time to babysit a husband who seems compelled to fuck with him on each and every turn. It’s like Lance gets joy from being a nuisance. And yeah, sometimes when Lance’s attitude is directed towards Carlos or anyone who isn’t Fernando, it is pretty funny, but Fernando has not made a career of getting laughed at and he doesn’t intend to start now.

Once, Lance insists that his room is far too cold to be slept in, so he’ll just have to sleep in Fernando’s room instead. Fernando personally walks into Lance’s room to check it out himself, but it’s actually freezing in there despite adjusting the thermostat, and Lance refuses any other solution, so they spend a silent night on polar opposite sides of Fernando’s bed. The next day, Fernando is informed by the staff that a wrench was discovered in the heater that led to Lance’s room, jammed perfectly so that the temperature could not be changed. Neither of them mention it again, and Lance goes back to sleeping in his own room.

Carlos asked him once why he puts up with it– Lance’s teasing, his sarcasm, everything– but it’s not like he has any choice. If Fernando truly gets desperate, he goes to the printouts of his bank account and just stares at the numbers. Solace can be found in deposits of numbers followed by many, many zeroes.

Over time, the good moments start to crop up like a five o’clock shadow. Fernando takes Lance on a drive to visit some allies and they drive through glorious countryside in a sports car more expensive than any of the land as far as the eye can see. They play a couple of rounds of tennis in a court on Fernando’s estate. Lance’s sister visits and everyone’s in a good mood.

Somehow, though, something always happens to sour each and every small win. Lance squirms in the passenger seat of the car Fernando bought with his father’s money and picks a fight about missing Sebastian, who was the second best marriage candidate until Fernando put his name in the ring. When they’re out on the courts, Fernando asks why Lance seems far more passionate about tennis than business; Lance doesn’t realize it’s a joke and asks how long until Fernando gives up on him, just like Lawrence. Fernando is walking through his mansion late at night when he overhears Lance talking to Chloe in hushed voices about what she did to make Scotty like her, as if Lance needs coaching to even handle Fernando at all.

They fight and they make tentative peace. The ground gets shakier before it solidifies. Eventually, they manage to keep a respectable truce that varies throughout the week. They drink together, they talk together. Lance keeps lingering at the door of his room in a way that makes Fernando want to do something he regrets, but he never commits. Somehow, he knows that even one mistake is all it will take to destroy him forever.

Fernando is in between conference calls one day when Lance pops into his office. “I’m going to be back late tonight,” he announces. “Meeting Esteban.”

Fernando nods. “Want me to drive?”

“You’re in meetings,” Lance points out.

Fernando shrugs. “I can skip them.”

This makes Lance grin triumphantly, like he’s somehow proved himself far more valuable than even Fernando’s beloved ledgers and printouts. “That’s so unlike you, I’m charmed. I’ll be fine, we’re just grabbing drinks. See you later.”

Fernando lifts a hand in farewell when Lance does the same, and watches the man disappear back down the hall. Although it seems strange to say, Fernando swears the mansion seems emptier that evening. It’s just one person gone, he reminds himself, and besides, he and Lance don’t see each other all that often anyway. Too busy. Still, Fernando feels like his steps echo up and down the hallways in a way that they haven’t in a long time. Since before the wedding, perhaps. Since before he got used to having someone else around.

Fernando hadn’t intended to wait up for Lance, but he’d also assumed that the man would be back before too long. A few hours past midnight, Lance still hasn’t returned, but this probably doesn't mean anything. Maybe Lance is on a hell of a bender and he’ll find his way downstairs the next morning in even more disarray than usual. The thought makes Fernando smile.

Fernando wakes up the next day and decides to check that Lance had actually made it back, just in case. A bit of paranoia, but that’s how he’s made it this far, hasn’t he? Fernando drifts by Lance’s room, but the door is wide open, revealing– an empty bed, the sheets untouched. Wasn’t even slept in. Ignoring the skip in his heart rate, Fernando pokes his head inside, but he doesn’t see any evidence that Lance had been there.

Maybe he was drunk and passed out downstairs. Fernando can’t pretend like he hasn’t pulled that move before. However, after conducting an extensive sweep of the mansion, Fernando still can’t locate Lance. The questioning text sent to Lance’s phone goes unanswered. Fernando gives it five minutes before giving into his panic and calling him. Three times, it goes unanswered. By the final ring, Fernando is genuinely starting to panic.

Esteban does not sound happy to have Fernando calling him, even though it’s not even that early in the morning, all things considered. “What do you want?”

“Where’s Lance?” Fernando asks, abandoning all pretense.

Esteban sounds confused. “What do you mean?”

Fernando wants to throttle him. “He was out with you last night and he hasn’t come back. Is he with you or not?”

There’s a pause over the line, and when Esteban speaks again, his words are very deliberate. “What are you talking about? Lance was never with me.”

Fernando feels his heart drop. “That makes no sense. Lance told me he was meeting up with you for drinks. Did he never show up?”

“No,” Esteban says, and finally he sounds just as nervous as Fernando feels, “I never texted him at all. It must have been someone else impersonating me.”

Fernando swears. “Who? The Strolls have plenty of enemies, but who would go to the trouble of luring him out of my estate just to take him?”

Esteban is silent for a while, and then he speaks again in a rush of static. “Do you remember the BWT incident?”

Fernando lets out a low breath. “Of course I do. It’s half the reason I considered the Strolls in the first place.”

BWT was a sizable mob family of their own back in the day. Although they’d never been at the forefront like the Spanish, the Chevaux Rouges, or, hell, even the Bulls, they’d been there, and that’s more than most wannabes can say. Then Lawrence Stroll had gone and fucking bought them out. It’s unthinkable. Imagine having the money to purchase an entire black market ring. The Strolls were on the up-and-up, but after that, they solidified their place among the elite. That’s when Fernando had started looking at them in earnest.

“Nice one,” Esteban harrumphes. “Way to appreciate Lance.”

“I do,” Fernando insists, which feels strange. He’s never bothered to defend himself against Esteban’s feckless complaints, but he has the overwhelming need to exonerate himself from this one.

Esteban sighs. “I know Otmar Szafnauer signed the deal to give the Strolls control over BWT, but his right hand man, Sergio Pérez, was furious about it. He never forgave Otmar, and he’s had it out for Lawrence ever since. Everyone else in this goddamn city wouldn’t pick a fight with Lance, especially not so recently after they were all at the wedding, but Pérez wouldn’t care about something like that.”

“He’s probably been biding his time for a while now,” Fernando realizes. “Waiting until he could get back at Lawrence. This was his chance.” He stands up, signaling to one of his servants to rally his men. “Where is he? I need an address.”

Esteban tells him the location of his estate after some searching then hangs up, but not before reminding Fernando to get Lance as soon as possible, a sentiment that Fernando has no problem following. Carlos shows up just in time, the best killers under their employ with them. He starts to ask Fernando what the plan is, but Fernando silences him with a single glance. There is no plan. Fernando’s only want is to get Lance then burn the whole damn place to the ground.

Fernando Alonso is no stranger to killing. This is not the first time he’s gone after a rival. Still, he doesn’t think he’s ever wanted it like this in a very long while. Every bullet in the head of one of Pérez’s guards is one closer to getting Lance back. From the moment Fernando’s cars show up at Pérez’s property, he hopes the man is terrified.

They break down the gate, smash through the double doors, and everything goes to hell. The constant ricochet of bullets is like a drumbeat in Fernando’s ears. He is methodical, tactical, going from room to room. There will be no survivors. Blood starts to coat his shoes, his clothes, but Fernando does not care.

He’s hardly aware of what he’s doing at all until he breaks into a locked room somewhere in the basement and he finds a figure tied to a chair.

Lance.

The guards don’t stand a chance; they fall before they even get a chance to fire their guns. Fernando races to Lance’s side, undoing the bonds. Lines of dried blood arc across Lance’s face, his arms, and Fernando feels a bout of rage descend upon him, even stronger than when he first found out that Lance had been kidnapped.

“I’ll kill him,” Fernando pledges, “I’ll kill him, and I’ll make it long. He’ll be begging for mercy at the end, but I won’t give it to him. Not when he did this to you.”

Lance reaches up a trembling hand. Fernando catches it at once, pressing it between his two palms. “Fernando?” He asks uncertainly.

“Yes,” he says. “It’s me. You’re alright, Lance. I’m so sorry.”

Lance shakes his head. “Not your fault. I should have seen through it.”

“No,” Fernando insists. “He tricked all of us. I’ll put a bullet in his mouth to stop his lies.”

Lance stands up slowly, unevenly. Fernando catches him, helping him to the door. “I just want to go home,” Lance tells him. “You got your revenge. Let’s just go.”

“Okay,” Fernando says. “Let’s go home.”

On the way out, he passes Carlos, who tells him in terse Spanish that they have Pérez waiting for him. Usually, Fernando would insist on handling the matter himself, but Lance looks up at him and Fernando knows he can’t put this off any longer. He tells Carlos to handle it quickly, then leaves without waiting for an answer.

They get into a car together, Fernando driving and Lance in the passenger seat. The low light from occasional street lights shines on Lance’s face, reflecting the dim planes of his countenance.

Lance catches him looking and smiles softly. “I’m alright, Fernando.”

Fernando still isn’t entirely convinced. “I’ll get a doctor to look at you. I wouldn’t put anything past that coward. And I’ll get more guards on the estate, just in case. Around the clock.”

Lance scoffs. “We don’t need that. He’ll never touch us again. And besides, I know you’ll handle him if he does.”

Fernando is well used to being a source of fear, a reason not to attack. Hearing Lance’s sincere trust in him, though, even after being kidnapped, makes his frantic nerves finally start to settle. “Why would you have such faith in me?” He asks quietly as he parks the car in his garage, sitting in the stillness of the car now that the engine is off.

Lance actually smiles. “Let me prove it to you,” he says, and leans forward to kiss Fernando.

It explains a lot.

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